Life Starts Now
by vinnie2757
Summary: When Matthew Williams is murdered, Gilbert Beilschmidt wonders what it is about the kid that interests him so much when there's been so much death around him. He comes to learn the meaning of what it means to be alive through his Ghost. Pru/Ghost!Can AU
1. Prologue: Life Starts Now

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Summary: **When Matthew Williams is murdered, Gilbert Beilschmidt wonders what it is about the kid that interests him so much when there's been so much death around him. He comes to learn the meaning of what it means to be alive through the Ghost of a murdered innocent. Prussia/Ghost!Canada

**A/N: **OH MY GOD. I AM ALIVE. Updated as of 16/June/11. Notes at end.

**Prologue: Life Starts Now**

"Hello, my child… What troubles you?"

"Good morning, father. I have a confession to make."

"Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"Nah, here'll do. What I've done isn't a sin. I believe God sent it to me to test me. But my reactions to the trial are what I have to confess."

"Go on."

"I fell in love, you see. I know the Church condemns homosexuality, but how could He allow us to fall for our own sex if He didn't want us to? Cry 'demon' all you like, but we have to be _able_ to fall in love in the first place if we're going to be tempted… Is that wrong?"

"…The bible is a world view, my child, not a rule book. So you're gay?"

"Yes. But I think that falling in love is what killed me. I'm dead, father, and I've been dead since the Stasi took my family from me."

"I don't understand."

"I didn't expect you to. But know this; love might kill us, might tear us down till we're nothing but a faded memory in the diary of a girl half our age, but it is a worthy death we die, and a peaceful one, so long as the ones we love are there to greet us as we pass through the gates and into Death's waiting arms."

"That was… eloquent."

"Take care of yourself, father. There are dangerous things in the world, more than you know."

"I will. Peace be upon you."

"I already have my peace."

* * *

_I wonder – will anyone notice? I mean – it's not like – it's not like they knew I was there – most of the time – in the background – which what it was all about – the background._

_I hope Al gets his thumb out of his ass and asks Arthur out – I mean – they're just so – they're besotted._

_Ha!_

_Look at me – dying – and I'm pairing my brother off._

_Francis would be proud._

_Will he – will he remember me? I'll miss him – can't keep it in his pants – but I'll miss him anyway._

_Do they know – that I'm dead – that I'm here – the lake._

_There must be blood – the alley can't be clean – he can't have been that clean – evidence is there, surely._

_But – will they think to look – will anyone go there to find it – to find me._

_Ha, is this what death is – what it really means?_

_I – I'm scared – really scared. I don't – I don't want to go._

_Help – please – help someone please._

* * *

He was used, oh so used, to being accused of varying levels of insanity, and even more varying levels of lies, but he really, honestly, couldn't care less. He knew what he saw, what invaded his senses and shoved his consciousness to one side in order to take over. He knew there were Ghosts left in the world, Those Who Had Remained Behind in order to complete their Unfinished Business, which was usually driving him _up the wall_.

But no matter, no matter, he'd lived for fifteen years knowing what he knew, and he knew how to deal with it.

Well.

He would if he could get his head around this one. Surely, _surely_, he would have had a phone call, surely there'd be someone knocking at his door demanding his alibi for whatever-time-whatever-place, because everybody knew Arthur Kirkland had criminal records in England, Spain and Latvia, and that wasn't counting the school trip to France. It didn't matter that he was completely bloody innocent. All that mattered was he was, to the cops, the last person to see him alive, and that he had a criminal record. What a load of –

"What happened to you?" he whispered to the sub-zero air at the bottom of his bed, the cold fingertips on his ankle – but they were always cold, and he never thought he might miss them.

_I don't know. I'm scared, Arthur, I'm so scared._

It wasn't unusual that the Ghosts didn't remember what had happened to them, he knew that finding that out was usually what made them Cross Over. There was blood staining his wet sheets; he knew neither the blood nor the water were real, but they were real enough to him that he knew it hadn't been a pleasant death.

The fingers on his ankle crawled up his leg and stomach, laid their palm flat over his heart and he saw darkness, moonlight on steel, blood in water, lilies, the briefest flash of red and white. An alley, a sign swinging in the breeze, trees and a conspicuous rock by water's edge. He saw his house and a motorbike, a mechanic's garage and the Academy. Pain and fear and love and peace flashed fast through his body. Hate and anger and happiness flooded him in their wake.

"Oh no," he whispered, his own fingers stretching out to sink into the cold air, latching onto the sensations the Ghost had given him, sorted them and catalogued what they meant. "You didn't."

_I don't remember. But I think maybe. Possibly. Probably._

"I'm going to get into so much trouble," he groaned, screwing his eyes shut and dropping his shoulders. "But I'll find out what happened to you, I promise. I'll get you home."

_Clairvoyance._

"Yes."

That hand on his heart shifted so suddenly he couldn't react in time. It closed around his throat, squeezing his windpipe even as he was bodily hauled from his bed and pinned him to the floor, one leg tangled in his sheets and the hard wood flooring cold against his bare back. As spots appeared in his eyes, he imagined he could hear the phone ringing until it ticked over to voicemail. The accent was slight, choked by tears, but definitely East Coast American.

"_Artie? C'mon, pick up. It's Mattie. Cops just called. He's dead, Artie. Mattie's dead. Art, _please."

A split-second passed in which his world blacked out, and when it righted itself again, he was alone and cold in a warm room, hacking his lungs out over a pair of polished black copper's boots.

"Arthur Kirkland?" He groaned a vague assent, rubbing his neck with one hand, his eyes with the other. "You're under arrest for the suspected murder of Matthew Williams. You do not have to say anything – "

Arthur turned to the side and spat what tasted like blood and fresh water out of a dry mouth.

Bollocks to it all. He's just been arrested in his boxers. Again.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

The conversation with the priest with the **bible being a world view** is half of a genuine conversation I had a few months ago. I didn't tell him I was gay, I just pointed out that the view was stupid. Apparently I made a logical argument. He was a cool priest.

In East Germany when under Soviet rule, the **Stasi **were the secret police. Watch the German-language film _The Lives of Others_ to get a good idea of what it was like.

**Peace be upon you**, otherwise known as the _Assassin's Creed_'s _Safety and Peace, brother._

I am a fan of **Capitalising Everything**. I blame the Harry Potter fanseries, _The Shoebox Project_. Teenage boys capitalise everything. I picked that trait up.

England does have a **bad reputation in Latvia**. A guy on a stag do beat up a Latvian copper and then claimed being locked up was a breach of his human rights. To quote my BFF; "dick head."

Matt's speech is **aligned to the right** because of a suggestion from my BFF who listened to my bitching about how to represent Matt's speech and told me to align it from the right to make it look like it was coming from 'the other side'. I love her so much. EDIT:: Or not, as the case may be, 'cause apparently ff.n doesn't do right allignment. Damn it all. Centre allignment it is then. Tell me what you'd rather have guys, centre or left.

Alfred's accent is **East Coast** because that was the bit first colonised. I don't think I should have to explain it, but better safe than sorry.

I love **writing Arthur** more than anything.

I don't think there's anything else to say other than; sorry for making you guys wait so long for an update, even if it's just a replacement. One word; school.


	2. Chapter 1: World So Cold

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **Life sucks and Gilbert takes up a hobby.

**A/N: **OH MY GOD. I AM ALIVE. Updated as of 16/June/11. Notes at end.

**Chapter 1: World So Cold**

"'Ere, I hear Arthur's been arrested again."

"Yes. Francis as well."

"You're jokin', right?"

"I do not joke."

"Yeah, I know." Gilbert Beilschmidt yawned loudly and stretched, cracking his laced fingers above his head and arching his back. "Is the town on lock-down 'cause of it? I wanted to go out to the lake and get away for a bit."

"The far eastern edge of town is, by the woods. Matthew Williams was murdered last night."

"Matt? As in; Alfred's twin, Matthew Williams?"

Ludwig nodded idly, immersed in his coffee and the morning's newspaper, not giving his cousin a verbal answer. It gave Gilbert a few spare moments to study him. They were vastly different, but Gilbert supposed that was par for the course. He's been without parents for the greater part of his life, his uncle a poor substitute, and it showed. Where Gilbert was all vapid grins, Ludwig was all serious frowns. Where Gilbert had sass, Ludwig had respect. Where Gilbert was cool, Ludwig was school. The elder of the cousins wore the blacks and reds and other rock-music colours to suit his colouring and his eyes, let it fall into the tatty disrepair of rebels the world over, pierced his ears and left his colourless hair a mess. The younger, in stark contrast, was always impeccable, a paragon of German militarism; fitted shirts and pressed trousers, muted colours to blend into the crowd, neat hair and the towering presence that may or may not have had something to do with the two inches of height he had on Gilbert.

They didn't know who Lukas was going to take after yet; in looks, he had Ludwig's classic Germanic colouring, and his brother's social ineptitude, but his brashness and war-mongering defiance were all Gilbert's.

A moment passed between them then, a dead stillness that made Gilbert's skin crawl and wonder what was going through his cousin's head; whether he remembered what had happened to Alise and to Mina and whether he was remembering his own Accident on the Autobahn when Gilbert ran away.

But all he said was; "I think it's going to be bright today. Make sure you wear long sleeves if you've any clean."

And the moment passed, making Gilbert snort with indignant laughter and flounce off to his bedroom, throwing a sarcastic, "Yes, _mother_," over his shoulder as he went.

* * *

He managed to fish a black hooded zip-through sweatshirt out of the bottom of his wardrobe that was at least half-way clean – it smelt of beer, and had some grass-stains on the elbows, but he'd worn worse – and it seemed fitting. The day might have been bright, reflecting off of windows and vehicles and the streets, but the mood was sombre, quiet, dark. He felt almost guilty, shouldering his bag and sauntering through those sunlit boulevards, for not knowing all that much about Matthew Williams, because it seemed, to him at least, that everybody else _did_.

Unfortunately, his main sources of information – Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefrois – were currently locked up, so there was no way he was learning anything anytime soon. He could ask Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, he supposed, but the Spaniard was as vapid as they came, and Feliciano Vargas wasn't much better, though his attention was always on some project or another and he had no time for anything that wasn't Ludwig.

There was always Peter, Arthur's younger brother, if that bloody Swede would let him anywhere near him. He could always bribe the kid with sweets in exchange for information, but that could – and probably would – be classed as kiddy-snatching, and Gilbert had enough problems without that too.

"Balls," he sighed, flopping onto a bench and sighing again, elbow on knees and chin in hand. "Might as well just google him."

"Oi, what's your problem?"

Gilbert glanced across to find Peter Kirkland sat on the bench next to him, his little legs swinging and eyes forwards, watching their tiny little world pass them by. Gauging the kid and what his reaction might be, Gilbert pondered the merits of asking him what he knew about the dead kid, and then decided to ask anyway.

"What do you know about Matthew Williams?"

"Alfred's bro?" He shrugged. "Not a lot. You should ask Liet."

Gilbert snorted. "Like he'd talk to me. A wedgie and a few names a lifetime ago and he still thinks I want to flush his head down the toilet." He thought about it, and then added, "Well, I do, but that's not the point."

Peter chuckled, but it was a short, abortive little laugh and soon he was frowning again. "I can't think of no one else. If you talked to the cops real nice, like, they might let you near Al. Not a lot of people knew Matt all that well, so they're all snotty and weepy about it and shit."

"Language," Gilbert chided idly, because Arthur always punched him if he didn't. "You're not."

"I'm twelve."

"Touché."

"You could try Katie," Peter mused after a little while's thought. "She'd burst into tears the moment you brought Matt up, like, but she might be able to tell you something about him. They were pretty close, best I get."

Gilbert frowned. "Ekaterina, really? How the hell did they meet?"

"Matt used to play hockey with Ivan. It's only Alfred he doesn't like."

Involuntarily, his blood ran cold at the name and his heart shuddered in his chest. A quick shake and a hard blink were enough to get his brain back into focus, but the chill in him remained, and would probably remain for the rest of the day. "Alright, thanks, Pete."

"Do you know – uh – that is – " Peter frowned at his knees, and Gilbert eyed him.

"What is it?"

"D'you know when they'll be done searching the house? I left a lot of stuff there that I need, but they won't let me in."

"What're you asking me for, kid? I don't know." But he found himself thinking it through as logically as he could when the boy's face crumpled. "Twenty-four hours, probably. That's how long they can hold Artie for before they have to charge him. Then they'll come back and do another sweep if they find anything that suggests Arthur did it. But I doubt they will. Artie might be a punk, but he wouldn't kill anyone. Not Freddie's bro, at any rate."

It was complete guesswork, but it did its job of placating Peter, who hopped off the bench, bid his farewells, and disappeared.

Why was he – Gilbert – so interested in this kid? He'd been vaguely aware of Matthew's existence for a few years, since Romulus Vargas hauled him back to Saint Hetalia by his ear when he ignored his uncle's warnings, but he'd never met him. He had a vague image of styled blond waves – shorter than Francis's but not too dissimilar – and blue eyes, glasses and the Canadian maple leaf red, a polar bear and a sad little smile. He remembered, caught up in his music and his photography and his car, wondering what could make such a pretty little thing so sad, what could make him disappear like that.

But there was no reason to have such a desperation to find out who a dead guy was. He didn't know him, and people he'd vaguely known of – people who'd been close to people he'd been close to – had died before, and he'd never batted an eyelid. What was it about Matthew that drew him in? Was it because of that smile, or because he was Alfred's twin brother, or because there was only eighteen months between them, if that? Was it because something had come along and torn his world down again, destroyed everything he'd fought to save?

He'd been murdered, Ludwig said. Someone had killed him, and Gilbert had a vague – although likely accurate – idea of who that was.

The eastern end of town was closed off; that meant Francis' club and the lake. He could, of course, go into the Academy and do something resembling work, but the atmosphere would be worse in there, cloying and dragging him back into the world of the depressed and the scared. He'd lived in that world before, and had been pulled back into it twice, despite his best attempts to flee.

There would be no sanctuary for him at the moment; home was not an option, and his favourite hiding spots were out of reach for the moment. He could always go to the _Leaning Tower of Pizza_, which was always alright, so long as Romano Vargas wasn't on shift, and Antonio always gave him a free coffee, and they had wi-fi. He could hide in the corner and do some research into this kid.

It was the best plan he'd had thus far, so it was to the centre of town he headed, to the little Mediterranean café he liked to call a home away from home.

The atmosphere was dull in here, too, but at least it was still cheery. Feliciano Vargas was sat on the counter, sketching in a notebook that Gilbert was at least ninety-per-cent certain was meant to be used for his Academy work. Honey gold eyes glanced up when the door jingled, and Gilbert found himself with an armful of tiny Italian energy.

"Did you hear about Matthew?" Feliciano asked Gilbert's ribs, and Gilbert could only guess what he'd asked.

"I think everyone's heard about it, kid," Gilbert replied, peeling the smaller boy away from him. And then, because there wasn't any harm in it, he asked, "Did you know him?"

"Not very well," he admitted, hopping back up onto the counter and swinging over it. He made a fantastic coffee and talked as he rattled the machine and the cups and the spoons. "But he helped me out once, when I was struggling to get my art work up the stairs. He was nice and friendly, but I didn't see him again." He frowned and pushed the coffee at Gilbert.

"Thanks," the paler man acknowledged, retreating the back corner table.

He booted up his netbook, sipped at the coffee and revelling in the tang of cinnamon and honey in there, and tapped his password in. The internet booted itself up automatically, and Gilbert headed for the Academy's website, searching for anything with Matthew's name in it.

By the time he'd finished his coffee, he'd learnt absolutely nothing about him. There was no mention of him on any newsletter, in any announcement, even his grades weren't up on the showing-off-page.

"Who are you?" Gilbert whispered to the picture that came with the search; a tall boy with rectangular glasses in a baggy hooded sweatshirt with the Canadian flag stitched on one side, his blond hair a barely-straightened mess, one curl defiantly looping away from its neighbours, a long, strongly-jawed face, fierce, quiet lavender eyes, and that sad little smile on his lips. "Who are you really?"

Later that night, when Gilbert was curled up in bed watching the TV and not caring the least that Lothar had shouted at him to turn it off twice already – he'd turned it down when Ludwig asked though, because he said _please_ – the police issued a report following the autopsy of Matthew William's body.

"His body was found in the lake by an unknown source late last night, and initial autopsy reveals the cause of death to be asphyxiation. The police are currently conducting an investigation into the murder, and ask anyone with any information to step forwards, and remind the public that the murderer may still be out there, so please, don't go anywhere alone."

But Gilbert was already jamming on his shoes and snagging his wallet, keys and camera, leaving the room and the house in a flurry of silent movement, his television still left on in the background.

In the morning, he conceded defeat and trekked back home, not having met said murderer, or even found out anything interesting from the drunk night-lifers that had littered the streets at closing time.

_Help me, please._

"What?" he asked, pausing at the entrance of a back-alley – a quick way to get back home, not that anyone would care if he was there or not – and staring down it.

_I'm missing something. But I don't know what. Can you help me find it?_

"Who's there?"

_Please, can you help me? I've lost it._

"Lost what? Are you alright?"

Okay, it was official; Gilbert was _freaked out_. There was absolutely nobody down the alley, but there was definitely a voice there, talking to him. A young male voice, lilting with an accent, but there was static in there too, as though they were talking over the phone, and the reception was bad. He liked to think he recognised the voice, but he'd be damned if he could place it.

_I don't know. I don't remember. I'm scared, really scared. Help me._

"I would, kid, if I knew how. What's your name?"

_I don't remember. I think I'm dead._

Something struck him then, a moment of realisation that nearly stole his breath.

"Matthew? Matt Williams?"

_I think so. Yes. That's my name. Matthew. There's something here. Something important. But I can't see it. Can you help me? Please, I need help._

"'Course," Gilbert promised. "Anything I can do, you name it."

It crossed his mind that maybe, just a little, he was insane, but as he walked deeper into the alley, following the echo of Matthew's voice that was highly likely to be just in his own mind – but really, was he insane if he knew that he'd lost it? Didn't that make him _sane_? – he thought that maybe, just maybe, Arthur was onto something.

_There's something missing. From me. My head. I don't know. I can't remember. I feel empty. Help me find it. Please._

"Pushy, aren't you?" Gilbert grinned, but he pulled out his phone and turned it into a torch, flashing it down the alley, even as the shadows shortened.

There it was.

"Is that it?"

_Yes. That's it. My blood. Thank you. There's something else. If I remember, can I ask you to find it for me?_

"Yes, do you know who I am?"

_Yes. Gilbert. I know you. You ran away when you were eighteen. You went back to Germany. You got married, but she was dying, and Romulus Vargas had to bring you back here. You didn't want to come back to this place though. You hate it here. You ran away because you were accused of killing Alise Laurinaitis. You still have nightmares about it. It's why you drink, even though the doctors say it could kill you. You want to die._

"You're creeping me out, kid."

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm scared. I'm so scared. I don't understand._

"Yeah? Neither do I. I need to call the police, Matt. They need to know about this. They need to know that there's blood here, that they might be able to find who killed you."

_I know what killed me. I can't remember, but I know._

"Well, try and remember for me," Gilbert told the voice, dialling the hotline for the investigation and waiting to be patched through. "I'll try and find out."

_There's something missing, Gilbert. Something that was mine but isn't with me, but it should be. Find it for me, please. Help me. I need help._

"I know, Matt, I know. Hi, yeah, uh, I think I've found something. Yeah, there's blood in this back alley by _The Louvre_. I think it might be Matthew Williams'. Gilbert Beilschmidt. Yes, I'll wait here."

_Thank you._

"No problem, I think."

It was as he was left alone to wait for the police, that he realised he'd just spoken to a _dead kid_. Somebody who'd _just been murdered_. That in itself wasn't all that odd – he still talked to Mina, as if she was listening to his whining – but Matthew'd just _talked back_. He'd promised to find whatever it was that Matthew had lost, as if it would help him move on to have that lost item back.

He got the feeling of cold fingers on the back of his neck, even as he stared at the blood pooled at the bottom of the alley, splashed up the wall, fixated at a point roughly in line with Gilbert's stomach, and realised he'd just talked to a Ghost.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

After spending so long away from the fandom, getting back into it's been really hard. I also haven't seen any of the animations since like, just after we got introduced to Russia's sisters. I'm sure I saw some later than that, but I can't remember them. If there have been any more like, startling developments that completely contradict what I'm writing, let me know. After my exams, I might hunt the clips down and go on a mass watching spree. Maybe. Writing the characters is also really hard, but I'm going off what I interpret their personalities as, and, hopefully, giving them a bit more depth. I don't know, what do you think?

I kind of imagine **Gilbert's accent **being kind of like Lena Meyer-Landrut's. Just 'cause I write him like a Cockney, and she sounds like a German Lily Allen. To me anyway. Sorry Germans.

There will be an explanation as to why **Gilbert is Ludwig's cousin, not brother, **don't get your knickers in a twist. Everything will get its explanation, so don't ask. Because I won't tell you. Unless, you know, I've already told you, in which case, I have a bad memory.

Gilbert's **uncle is obviously Germania**. I know that technically Lothar (pronounce Low-tar) is a later German name, but the Old Germanic form is Chlodochar. I came to the conclusion you might think I was sneezing and made it a bit later. Maybe he did too?

**Lukas is HRE**. I shamelessly stole the name from a PrUK fic I read ages ago by Elwon on LJ, called the Hooligan and Delinquent series.

I genuinely don't see **Feliciano as being ditzy**. I see him as being preoccupied. Anybody who knows the slightest about Leonardo da Vinci – or is enough of an Assassin's Creed fan for that matter – will see exactly where I got that idea from.

Remember guys, **vague story is vague** FOR A REASON.


	3. Chapter 2: Let It Die

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **Arthur gives Gilbert some advice.

**A/N: **Oh my lord, guys, I am so sorry for making you wait so long for this. I really am sorry. Uh… You might wanna reread the prologue and chapter one. I rewrote them, which was part of why I took so long. Well, no, I kind of hated the fandom for so long. It was just so same-y, you know? Everywhere I looked there was the same thing over and over and over again, and I got sick of all the historical inaccuracy and the 'I'm over however-many-years-old and I don't have any scars to show for it' rubbish. I mean, _really_. That and need I say the dreaded word of all fanfic writers? I must? Oh, alright: SCHOOL. No, seriously, A-levels are a bitch, especially when you're failing the subject you want to do at university. It sucks balls.

Tl;dr: I had school, I hated the fandom, I'm so sorry.

Notes at end.

**Life Starts Now Chapter Two: Let It Die**

"Yo, Artie, how you doin'?"

"Speak English or not at all."

Gilbert snorted unhandsomely, pulled his hood down and raked his hands through his hair to straighten it out, and flopped onto the bench next to the tired-looking Englishman. The thing was, Gilbert supposed, his boyfriend's – he'd deny it, of course, but you had to be blind not to realise they were together, or at least completely head over heels for each other – brother had just been murdered and Arthur had been arrested on suspicion of his murder. He'd been wrong, too, which was the worst thing about it. Arthur had been in custody for a week.

"Guess they didn't find anything against you?"

"They found Matt's coat on the coatrack in the hallway," Arthur shrugged. "But that's been there for years. Alfred vouched that Matt lost that coat five years ago. And come on, you don't disagree with Alfred."

Gilbert turned to look at him. "So you're, what? On bail? Free? What?"

"I'm under surveillance," Arthur shrugged. "They must think I'm off my nut or something, but I swear." He lowered his voice. "Look to the right, almost straight ahead of us, at the table by the door of the caff." When Gilbert had looked, and seen a man sat with a newspaper, Arthur muttered, "He's a copper, keeping an eye on me." He laughed bitterly. "Tell you what, though. I'm not completely stupid. You remember – well, you remember the Asylum – they had me in over that as well, but I threw them for a loop over it. Don't know what they're thinking this time. Why, if I'm being watched, would they think I'd go do something that would bring me down?"

He shook his head with another bitter laugh, and lit a cigarette.

Gilbert coughed non-too-discretely, and Arthur handed the cigarette over.

"I found where Matt was attacked," Gilbert supplied between drags.

Arthur stared at him as he took the cigarette back, and hissed when it burnt through to catch his finger. He cursed and dropped it. "Bollocks." He turned his glare back to the albino. "You what?"

"The day you were arrested, everything was real quiet like, but after the report that night, I went for a wander round town."

"God, Gil, do you _want _to be arrested?"

"Like they'd catch me. Anyway, there I was, and I hear this voice, asking me for help. I was hoping I'd find the murderer or something – and I swear I know who it was, but I need _proof_, the cops know I hate him and _God_ – but there it is, this voice, whispering in my ear, asking me for help, and I go down this alley down the back of the club, and the voice gets louder, as though I'm where it's coming from." Gilbert swallowed and closed his eyes, trying not to think about it, but finding the feeling the voice had ripped through him – the cold, clinical fear, the desperation, the need to help – boil back up in his chest, made it had to breathe. He could smell the blood in his nostrils, taste it in the back of his throat. "So I turn around, and there it is, blood, all over the wall and on the floor, like something – some_one_ – held Matt there, held him pinned and ran him through." He let out a shuddering breath. "And the voice is still there, telling me that yes, that's what he lost, but there's something else, something that belongs to him but he doesn't have, and the police drag me in for questioning, but I'm too shaken up to answer them.

"Arthur, I think that was Matt's Ghost."

To which Arthur replied with his own shaky exhale. His green eyes were intense, and as he leant back, Gilbert could see a hand-shaped bruise on his throat, an angry red and an angry purple, tinted with black and blue and yellow, and looking very, very cold. The shorter blond shivered as though cold, even though it was late June, and he gnawed on a thumbnail for a minute.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Arthur supplied eventually, and it was obvious he was fighting to keep his voice level. "I mean, I knew Matt, not all that well, but I knew him well enough to know why he'd choose you to go to."

"He knew me really well. He knew what happened to Alise, and he knew why I went back to Germany. He knew about Mina, Arthur, and he knew what happened to her… Arthur, I don't _believe in Ghosts_."

"I know!" Arthur snapped, a little too harshly. He calmed himself down with another exhale. "I know, alright? But that doesn't matter to him, Gil. All that matters to him is that he believes in you." He paused for a second, gauging Gilbert's already shaken countenance and wondering how he'd react to what he had to say next. "What he had that he lost, did he remember what it was?"

"No."

"No, I didn't think he would. He asked me the same. Or rather, he tried to ask me the same thing. When they first Cross Over, Ghosts don't remember a great deal about what happened to them. You promised to find it for him, didn't you? What he lost."

Gilbert nodded. "I was so freaked out, but I wanted to help him, Artie. He was begging for help, and I'm not so unawesome I won't help someone who needs it."

"And there it is," Arthur chuckled; it was a dark, horrible sound. "We were doing so well as well. Oh well, now I know you haven't had a complete personality transplant, I'll tell you this; you've bound yourself to him now. You're not a clairvoyant, and thank God for that Gil, because you would never rest again. But Matt's claimed you as his now, to help him Cross Over. Can you remember exactly what he said?"

Gilbert thought about it; it wasn't hard, the words clung to him like a malignant tumour on his memory. "He said that there was something missing. Something that was his but isn't with him, but it should be. So; what?"

"So, that means what he lost was something that was always with him. Something he always had on him." Arthur thumped the bench under him. "Damn it all, why didn't I pay more attention?"

"Hey, don't start that, it's not like you could have stopped it."

"Not that, it's not his death that bothers me – not like that, of course I care, but I know I couldn't have stopped it – it's the fact I don't know what he lost. God, I should know this."

Gilbert felt like he ought to try and calm Arthur's histrionics, but he had nothing he could say, and if he tried to touch the older man's shoulder, he knew he'd get a punch in the face. He sighed instead, and folded his arms, looking out over the Academy's courtyard and the cafeteria and at the grey, dreary sky. The brightness of Matthew's death had broken, leaving behind it a perfect pathetic fallacy to the mood of the town; dark and sombre, and very much scared. It looked how Gilbert remembered his first house, in East Germany, the very early memories of his mother's warm arms and his father's laughter. But they were vague warms arms, never holding on for very long, locked around him as if protecting him, the laughter strained, fearful. The sky was always grey in the East, and it always rained. At least, that was how Gilbert remembered it. It was raining that day, just months before the wall came down, just months before freedom. They could have all been safe, happy, if they'd just held on. But the thunder came and tore them all apart and Gilbert lost everything he'd known.

"What do I do?" he asked after a few minute's terse silence. "I mean, think about it Artie. If you're right – and I gotta tell you, I'm sort of agreeing with you here, this has crept the hell out of me – I've got to find whatever it is he lost. But _how_? I mean, I'm not _Jesus_. Well."

"I'll stop you there," Arthur interrupted. "Before you embarrass yourself. The only thing you can do, Gil, is go to the alley where he was attacked if you can get near it, and to the lake, and to his timetabled classrooms. See if you can find somewhere where he'll talk to you, see if you can jog his memory a bit. That's all I can suggest. It's what I do every time a Ghost comes to me."

"Hmm."

"Do it or don't," Arthur shrugged, rising to his feet and turning his face to the sky, though his eyes remained locked on his patrol. "It doesn't matter to me. I promised him I'd help him Cross Over. I can do it without your help."

"Arthur?" Gilbert waited until the Englishman had begun to walk away before calling his name, and as Arthur turned back, Gilbert had never felt so young, so vulnerable.

Though there were only three years between them, Arthur seemed so old for his years, purple shadows deep beneath his eyes, vicious scars on his face and his dark eyebrows a stark contrast to dirty-blond hair and pale skin. He was an inch shorter than Gilbert, but he had this way of looking at you, as though he could see right through you, as though he'd cut your throat and drink your blood because he could. But for all his bristle and his local nutjob act, he was solid in a way few people were. If you had him at your back, he was there for life.

"What?" The tone was soft, despite his ugly expression, as though he knew Gilbert was scared of what cards were being turned over in front of him, as though terrified of the path he had to walk down. He knew enough of what had happened to Gilbert – even though the East German lied through his teeth about what had truly happened, Arthur seemed to know anyway, and accepted that, for now at least, Gilbert hadn't come to terms with it – to appreciate that he could hold himself well.

"I'm scared."

"So am I. I'm always scared, Gil. But I deal with it because I have to. You have a choice. I suggest you make it."

"I want to help him," Gilbert replied adamantly, "But I don't know how. Christ! I don't know who he even is. There's nothing about him anywhere. Not on the Academy's website, in the papers, nothing. It's like he was a Ghost before he was even dead."

Arthur smiled then, and for all the horror of the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks, it was a soft smile, softer than the sneers and self-righteous smirks to which Gilbert was accustomed.

"And that, right there, is why he chose you to help him. You know what his life was like, Gil, because you've already lived it." He glared across the courtyard at his patrol, now hiding in a shadowed alcove and looking entirely too conspicuous. "What a twat." He crossed back to where Gilbert sat, pulled the pen from behind his ear, uncapped it, grabbed Gilbert's hand and wrote something in his small, neat handwriting across his palm. The black ink on his skin looked like a stain, like death itself. "When you're alone, say the first, and you should be able to call Matt to you, if he's in a place where he can get to you. If not, go somewhere he's associated with and try there. I also suggest you buy a Bluetooth. The last is a website. Go on it, and you'll be able to read Matt's autopsy report, and whatever facts Alfred's given them about his life."

They locked serious eyes for a minute. "And for God's sake, Gil, be careful. This could cost you your life, and mine and Alfred's and Francis's too."

"What's out there?" Gilbert whispered, knowing too well the tone in the older man's voice. Something was out there, and it was looking for them. It was darkness and it was death, waiting around every corner for them, and Gilbert knew the real meaning of fear. Even now, he couldn't shake the feeling the Stasi left in their wake.

"I don't know," Arthur shook his head. "But it's powerful, coming on the wind, and it brings the very fires of hell with it."

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I feel really bad, but for all the Life Starts Now album fits Gilbert perfectly, I've kind of hit that point where I've grown out of alternative-rock-emo music. I love Three Day's Grace, but come on, admit it, they can be really depressing at times. I actually wrote this chapter listening to a combination of Lady Antebellum, Cheryl Cole and Lady GaGa. My shuffle is really weird, and that's all I'm saying about that.

Oh, and just so you know, **I'm not a cop. I have no idea how police investigations work**. I'm making it up for the most part, but the last person to see them alive is usually the first arrested, and it's not unusual for people to be tailed if they're suspected.

**The Asylum** is a total noodle incident; but remember, vague is deliberately vague. If you don't know what a noodle incident is, look it up on TVTropes.

I can't help it, I see **both Arthur and Gilbert as smokers**.

The **vicious scars** on Arthur's face are, of course, a reference to my nation-head!canon that Arthur has a Glasgow Smile – for the unawares, they're scars cut by a sharp edge cut from lips to ear across the cheeks. Think Joker in _The Dark Knight_.

According to Himaruya's age list thing for them, **Gilbert's 20 and Arthur's 23**. All of them have their listed ages, or appropriate ages where none are given.

Just so you know, **I hate Bluetooth**. Ross Noble made a statement about it in the animatic opening of his Nobleism show; "And if you're wearing a Bluetooth headset; kill yourself. Give yourself the painful and prolonged death you deserve, safe in the knowledge that no one will mourn your passing." Insincere apologies to Bluetooth users, but it comes in useful for the plot. If you think about it, I'm sure you'll work out why.

I find writing Gilbert all cocky and whatnot really hard these days. It just doesn't feel like him. Not after what he's been through – I've been re-reading up on my Prussian history. Imagine him just after the wall comes down and he gets to leave Russia's house after being there for forty years. Sorry, not seeing his über-cockiness. At all. I'm trying to make him more rounded, make him impulsive rather than cocky. It's probably just because I suck at writing. Whatever.

I'm not entirely happy with this, but I thought that was a decent enough place to leave it. I know it seems like it's gone from being at least somewhat normal to complete fantasy, but I'm not really driving for realism.

Oh, and btw, I somehow or other lost my beta-reader. I think between one thing and another – otherwise known as; she's just out of school, whilst I'm still in it, and there's this thing called life that totally sucks balls – so if you fancy reading my utter hiccups in the field of bad writing, gimme a shout kthnx review!


	4. Chapter 3: Someone Who Cares

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **Gilbert gets into a fight and makes his choice.

**A/N: **Not much to say about this chapter, other than it starts off pretty angsty. Actually, this chapter is filled with angst. Enjoy, my lovelies? Notes at end.

**Life Starts Now Chapter 3: Someone Who Cares**

"Mina, marry me."

"What? Why would I do that?" She paused, turned her head and coughed. Gilbert watched her with intense red eyes, glancing, for a micro-second, at the readouts on the monitors above her head. He knew enough now, had spoken to the doctors and nurses and her mother, and realised that what he saw wasn't good, and hadn't been good the last fifty times he looked at it.

"Mina, please. Be happy, for me."

"With you? Gil," she shook her head, "Why are you running?"

"I'm not running," Gilbert replied automatically, but he thought, when her bruised, watery eyes narrowed, that maybe, just maybe, he'd been a little too quick.

She laughed a little, but it sounded so much like a cough, Gilbert couldn't tell the difference. But there was laughter on her face, so he smiled a little too.

"Gil, you're absolutely terrified. I can feel you shaking." She met his eyes levelly and held him there, head slightly to one side, blonde hair fanned around her, and he wondered how that was. "What are you running from? What was so bad that you had to come _here_?"

"Mina, please." Gilbert was not above begging; he didn't come here to talk about this. He came here to propose, and he was proposing, but she wasn't listening and this wasn't the way it was supposed to go at all. "Please, just… marry me, Mina, please."

"So you don't have to go back?"

"So I don't regret not asking you. For not giving you what I should have given you years ago."

"…You're only three months an adult," she reminded him. "You couldn't have given me what I wanted years ago." She grinned a little. "How do you know what I want?"

"Because I love you," he replied, quiet and angry. "Isn't that enough? Why is that never enough?"

"Oh, baby," she whispered, voice rough, and lifted a thin, shaking hand to touch his thin, shaking cheek. Her skin was cold against his own, the skin dry and Gilbert could feel tears welling in his eyes. He rubbed them away angrily and caught her hand before it dropped, holding it against his face. His eyes closed and he just sat there, breathing. "It is enough, it's more than enough. But, baby, it's not going to save me. You know that."

"I love you," he whispered into her palm, her skin tasting of chemicals and her monitors and drips and soft cotton hospital sheets. "I've always loved you, and I'm never going to stop loving you."

"You're sweet," she told him indulgently, and he could feel her hand become a dead weight. He lowered it and looked at her.

"Please," he repeated, because he knew full well that this was his last chance.

Her eyes slipped shut and she sighed. "Oh, alright then. I'll marry you. God, Gil, anyone would think _you_ were about to die."

It wasn't even that funny, but Gilbert laughed anyway, and then he laughed until he cried, and then he just cried. For a good half-hour, he sat on the edge of Mina's bed, sobbing into his hands.

_Are you alright?_

"I'm _fine_," he replied, hauling himself from his bed and stomping to the door. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he passed it. He looked like a wreck; puffy, bloodshot eyes, messy hair, wet, splotchy cheeks, sallow skin, too-red, too-dry lips. He sniffed angrily and slammed the door as he left.

_You're not fine. You never were fine. Not after that._

"_Shut up_!" he demanded, and Ludwig looked up from the table to stare in shock at his cousin. Gilbert glared back and stomped past him to get into the fridge.

"It's six in the morning," Ludwig mused idly, still watching the older man as he pulled out a can of beer. "I'm not complaining about you drinking, nothing I say will stop you. But what on earth are you doing up so early?"

Gilbert whipped round and glared at him, daring him to say anything. Ludwig, so healthily tanned and perfect and composed, the colour drained from his face even as Gilbert watched, and his eyebrows slanted.

"_Oh_. Oh, Gilbert, I'm sorry."

"Shut up," Gilbert spat back, downing the last of the can and throwing it expertly into the bin. "I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to look at you, I want to forget you and your perfect German breeding exist, get out of my face."

"Don't talk to your cousin like that!"

Gilbert whirled on the spot, facing the door once again, and glared daggers at his uncle. "I'll talk to my cousin however I want, _Uncle_. You don't understand what I've been through, you don't understand any of it, so you don't have any right to say anything."

"I understand far more than you," Lothar snapped back.

To which Gilbert laughed. "Oh, yes, because you know what it's like to lose your wife to Leukemia, because you know what it's like to lose your parents to the Stasi, because you know what it's like to be brought up believing that you're the defective son, that you're worth _nothing_." If asked later, Gilbert wouldn't remember saying any of it, but it was as if a floodgate had opened. Fifteen years had passed since he was taken from his family, two since he lost his wife. The wounds were, to Gilbert, still fresh, and he had been left bereft of what he needed. "Newsflash, all this? My attitude, what I've done and didn't do and will do? It's all on your head, because you hate me."

"Oh, yes, blame me. That's Romulus Vargas right there. You spend one flight with him, and suddenly he's a saint."

"He was more of a father to me on that flight than you ever were in the fifteen years I've been here!"

They were shouting at each other now, bellowing across the table between them, over Ludwig's head. The blond had been privy to these arguments before, but never before had Romulus Vargas been brought into it like this, never before had the arguments taken on this kind of tone.

"Rome indulged you, Gilbert," Lothar sniped, "Because he knew you were weak, and you needed your pathetic wants. You're as bad as your father."

"My father was better than you. Oh wait, sorry, you got him taken away by the Stasi, didn't you?"

"He was not worthy of your mother."

"And because of you, I don't have her either!"

That got him. "That… that wasn't what I intended."

Gilbert snorted with laughter, shook his head and turned away, walking to the door and through it.

A long, heavy moment passed in which Gilbert stood on the doorstep, eyes closed, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard through his nose.

_You shouldn't have lost your temper._

"I'm going to – "

But he paused, Mina's voice whispering across the underside of his jaw, her fingers warm against the back of his neck, too young to bring him to her bed, but old enough that she knew she wanted it. _You wouldn't speak ill of me, would you? Then why speak ill of the dead?_

_Going to what? Kill me?_

"Throw rock salt at you, that's what."

_Stop watching television._

Gilbert sighed a laugh, his shoulders relaxing, fists unclenching, and stepped away from the house. In the two weeks that had passed since Matthew's murder, Gilbert had begun to hear his voice, but he still couldn't determine its origin. For a while, he was convinced it was in his own head, but Arthur had provided sound advice, and what he'd written on Gilbert's palm had been… educational.

Much like the old-style vampires, Ghosts seemed to need express permission to enter a place that was not their domain; the poetic four lines that Arthur had scrawled onto Gilbert's skin must have been that express permission, because Gilbert had needed to be in either the Louvre, the Academy or, when the police had finished searching it, the east end of town before Matthew would offer anything. Now though, now that he'd mumbled those dozen words in the silence of his bedroom late one night, not expecting it to work, now Matthew wouldn't leave him alone. It was as though Arthur's poem or chant or spell or whatever-the-hell-it-was had stuck Matthew to Gilbert like glue.

It was to the lake that Gilbert headed now, Matthew's steps echoing in his wake, audible only to him.

"Does it hurt?" Gilbert asked eventually, but paused, mindful of the people around him, and pulled the Bluetooth headset Arthur had advised him to buy from his pocket and slipped it into his ear. No one, he suspected, would notice that the blue light wasn't flashing.

_Does what hurt?_

"Don't make me say it. You have to remember what he did to you, Mattie. We've talked about it before."

_What am I meant to remember?_

Gilbert glanced around out of habit, if not genuine fear; he wasn't meant to know any of the details, no one was, least of all Alfred. The boy had a quick-fire temper that maybe Arthur wouldn't be able to keep under control, and a twisted hero complex. If he _knew_…

"When I read your file the day you, ah, _answered my call_, it said that there was evidence of – oh God damn it – there was evidence of _rape_. I just – I'm wondering – you know – if you could feel it?"

Matthew was silent for a minute, but he was still there; the air was contemplative.

_No… I remember the feeling._

There wasn't much Gilbert didn't know, but he admitted little knowledge in the topic of, well, you know. He was straight – for all of ten minutes, he'd been married to the most beautiful girl in the world – so why would he know anything about gay sex, male _or_ female? Okay, so maybe he knew a little about the latter, he'd been in Ludwig's bedroom and seen under his mattress, and that wasn't an experience he had any great desire to repeat.

_There was pain, a lot of pain. But the water washed it all away. There's nothing now._

"Oh."

_Yeah, exactly._

Gilbert didn't give an immediate reply to that, but instead tucked his hands into his pockets and bowed his head, walking in silence.

_You walk like a soldier._

"That would be because I am."

_Eh?_

"My uncles hates me, remember? Suppose I remind him too much of what the scumbag did." He took a breath. "So he used to cart me off to this summer camp in Germany, run by some British general or something in one of the bases there, I don't really remember. He was a pot-bellied, balding nutjob. But I went there every summer till I was fifteen. Then I met Mina and stayed with her instead… We went to Rome one year, with her parents. Rome's great."

_I always wanted to travel._

"Can't you do that now? I mean, it's not like anything's stopping you."

_I'm missing pieces. I'm bound here until I have them back. But I don't –_

"Remember, I know, I know. And I'm _looking_, Mattie, I am."

By now, he'd reached the lake, and flopped somewhat gracelessly onto a large rock by the edge. Arthur had assured him that Matthew would become a visible presence when he felt ready to; when he had his missing pieces perhaps, or when he knew enough about Gilbert to feel comfortable. As it stood, all Gilbert had to go by were a few dated photos Alfred had given the police, and the pictures accompanying the autopsy report, which were, admittedly, not very pleasant to think about.

He could hear Matthew pacing as he sat there, back and forth, back and forth, treading invisible feet across unmoved bits of bark and leaves, across twigs and grass.

Gilbert, used to this behaviour, turned his attention to the rippling surface of the water. A storm was brewing, coming in off the far side of the woods, from the Asylum way.

"Glasses," he said abruptly, and when the pacing stopped, he elaborated. "In all the photos I've seen of you, you're wearing glasses. But not in your autopsy report. Is that the missing piece? What you should have with you?"

_I… don't know. No… something else._

Gilbert deflated, visibly sinking back onto the rock. He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun, and frowned.

_I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you._

The living male waved a hand idly. "Don't sweat it, kid. 'Snot your fault death's addled your brains. I just don't know what else it could be, yanno?"

_I don't know._

Again, a dismissive wave of a pale, thin hand cut the air, and the lake edge fell silent.

It was, of course, such a subtle shift in the air that Gilbert felt he should be excused for not noticing. Only someone who had been looking for it would have noticed, and Gilbert wasn't expecting anything. It was only when he finally opened his eyes that he noticed the difference in his surroundings.

"Oh," he said helpfully. "Hello."

"Hello."

He laughed nervously. "Been here long?"

"Long enough."

"Right. Uh. Didn't expect to see you here."

"Neither did I."

Another nervous chuckle. "This was easier when I couldn't see you."

"Sorry. I'll go."

"No, don't," Gilbert rushed, lurching upright and making to grab the cotton of the sleeve of a hooded sweatshirt, but his hand sank into freezing air. "Stay, please," he asked, pulling his hand back, wincing at the bite of the cold. "I just… you don't have glasses."

Matthew Williams laughed. "It's not like I need them, is it? I don't 'see' the way you do. I don't 'see' much of anything really. Just colours, shapes. To me, _you're _the Ghost."

They eyed each other, wary and appreciative and idling all at once. Matthew was tall like his brother, thin and lanky, but not without muscle. His hair was tousled – not wet, though Gilbert couldn't understand why – and his face was long, bruised in a struggle the Ghost clearly couldn't remember. His jeans were torn, and his sweatshirt bloodied, a gaping hole in the middle, through which Gilbert would see a clean, open wound.

"They're going to bury me tomorrow," Matthew supplied, jarring Gilbert from his trance.

Tearing his eyes from the wound – not the cause of death, though it would have been, if he hadn't drowned first – Gilbert met a pair of lavender eyes that looked too bright to be a natural colour, and said, quiet and sad, "I know."

Bold beyond previous measure, Matthew stepped into his bounty and put a hand on Gilbert upturned face, barely brushing it, the cold of his aura raising Goosebumps on Gilbert's skin.

"I want you to go to my house, Gil," he murmured, and there was no breath to leave his lips. "Whilst there's no one there. Find what they're missing. Find the clue."

"I'm not a _cop_, Matt. And I'm not a thief! I won't break and enter."

"You'll find a way. But please, Gilbert, please. It's there, I know it. The clue."

And in that moment, Gilbert knew he was in over his head.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

**Mina Lorenz(-Beilschmidt)** is my OC personification of the German state of Brandenburg, and also, from 1701, Prussia's wife until her dissolution as a state in the later 1800's. I see her as being **a year older **than Gilbert.

When Gilbert wonders how it is that Mina **still has hair** it's because a lot of people lose hair after having chemotherapy. Some people don't. Mina is one of those people, not that Gilbert realises that.

Gilbert's (platonic) **relationship with Rome** comes from the fact that Prussia was indulged by the Pope as a young nation, so he gets away with doing all sorts of stuff when Rome's watching. It's also a reference to how religious a nation Prussia is-was.

I have a thing about non-physical entities talking in various places on their living lover's body, here written as **the underside of Gil's jaw**. I'm not sure why that is, but I don't know, I just have a thing for it.

**Throwing rock salt at a Ghost** is a hat's off to the CW show, _Supernatural_. Another one is the **cops in the bar**. The blue tie/black suit is Castiel, the red striped shirt is Dean in the episode _It's A Terrible Life. _(Which actually happens in chapter 4, I keep forgetting what's in which chapter /fail)

Gilbert's **near-prudishness** comes from something I read a little ways back that I had to check up on from something I heard from a good friend of mine; East Germans were notorious prudes and had an abhorrence for anything even slightly erotic. I like to think Gilbert plays the lecher.

The **British military bases in Germany** still exist. Or did a few years back. A girl in my year of school – which, btw, is officially over and I never have to go back again fuck yes – used to live over in Germany whilst her dad was still in the army. The summer camp is – to my knowledge – made up.

Has anyone guessed what **Matthew's missing piece **is?


	5. Chapter 4: Break

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **Gilbert gets drunk and makes a promise he intends to keep, and Arthur falls ill. Again.

**A/N: **Bad Touch Trio, what's that? No, I know what the BTT is, I'm being sarcastic, because Spain's yet to be mentioned yet, and Gil spends all his time w/ Arthur. You'll see. This chapter sucks balls and is longer than the others to date. Notes at end.

**Chapter 4: Break**

It wasn't there.

Whatever clue Matthew had thought was there, wasn't. This was not to say Gilbert didn't look, because he practically tore the room apart trying to find what it was that Matthew meant.

One thing did come of it, though. On his bed, before Gilbert trashed it, there was clearly something missing. If he could work it into conversation with Alfred, he might find out what that was. As it turned out, Matthew hadn't lost his glasses, they'd been in the alley where his blood had been, a little further down. Apparently of no use to the police – there were no fingerprints or DNA that wasn't Matthew's – they'd been given to Alfred, where they now rested pride of place on Matthew's dresser.

"This is ridiculous," Gilbert sighed. "I'm not a cop, how am I meant to make sense of this, let alone solve it?"

Arthur stared at him over the rim of his glass. "This ain't – _isn't_ – a game, Gilbert, this is life 'n' – _and _ – death."

"You're drunk," Gilbert corrected automatically. "That's what this is. And I _know_, alright? I know it's not a game, if it was, I'd have solved it by now. But damn, Artie, how am I meant to find the clues? It's not like there's a walkthrough, or a hunt button." He paused. "I'd give my kingdom for one though."

"Nah – no – no you wouldn't," Arthur replied, slurring a little. "I know you, you'd just steal it straight back."

Gilbert had to give him that.

They drank in silence for a little while, but eventually Francis came over, looking like a wreck. Whilst digging through Matthew's file, Gilbert had found out that Francis was Matthew's cousin on his mother's side. For someone Gilbert couldn't remember acknowledging the existence of a cousin, he was certainly taking it hard. That he had a hair out of place and was out of his usual fitted shirt and in a baggy, washed-out T-shirt that hung off one shoulder spoke volumes.

"Can I get you two anything?"

"Are you trying to get Artie pissed?"

At the same time, the Englishman in question said, "Sit down before you fall down, Frog. The club won't collapse if you take the night off."

"'M being watched," Francis mumbled, leaning on his elbows so he was close enough to the other two that he could talk quietly. "I want to seem normal."

"And killing _yourself_ is the way to do that?" Arthur sniped, and something awkward and horrible passed unspoken between them.

Francis opened his mouth to reply, but his paternal cousin Marie Lateau appeared at his side and smacked his backside with the towel previously hanging out of the pocket of her skirt. As the Frenchman yelped and Marie threw a roguish wink Gilbert's way as she pulled a pint, the East German couldn't help but wonder how he'd forgotten she worked here. She knew a thing about beer that could – and _did _ – make Gilbert's head spin three days later.

"'Ere, Marie," Arthur called when she'd delivered the pint to its recipient. She came back, and her normally serious eyes softened a little. _Oh yes_, Gilbert thought idly, ducking his head and pretending he didn't exist.

"What is it? Need someone to walk you home?"

He laughed a little; a drunken laugh. "Nah, need yer to do us a favour, like."

"Oh dear, you _are_ drunk, aren't you? Alright, sweetheart, what's this favour of yours?"

"There're two coppers in here, like. Bar 'em."

"Can't bar cops, Arthur, you know that." She frowned out over the club, and Gilbert could tell she was trying to find them.

"One's in a business suit; blue tie, dark hair. The other looks like a toothpaste ad; red striped shirt?"

"I see them. God, could they be any more conspicuous? 'Ere, Fran, did you let them in?"

"Vash did."

"Of course he did. Be right back, gentlemen." She stopped, one leg swung up over the bar, and looked back at them, grinning wildly. "Well, that remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

Oh, if only Arthur was sober and not completely blind.

* * *

/_Today, I woke up with a hangover to end all hangovers. Went out drinking with the not-best-friend last night. English + German = bad idea; FML./_

Satisfied as he could be – really, they should be grateful it wasn't in _German_ – Gilbert shut his netbook and headed downstairs.

"Don't even go there, kid."

Lukas looked affronted, or as affronted as a child with a mouthful of cereal could look. "I wasn't doing anything!"

"Uh-huh, of course not. Why not go stalk Feli's bro or whatever it is you little creepers do these days?"

"I don't stalk," Lukas denied, puffing his chest out. Gilbert wondered if he knew what stalking even meant. "I gather reconnaissance."

The elder paused, hand on the cereal box. And then he laughed.

You're a bad influence.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Not you, kid."

"You're weird."

"Right back at you." When Lukas didn't say anything else, Gilbert started conversation again, this time around a mouthful of cereal. "So what are your plans for today?"

Lukas looked a little disgusted and finished his mouthful before replying with; "Father says it's rude to talk with your mouth full. You should stop annoying him so much." When Gilbert made a gesture that brought a blush to his baby cousin's cheeks, he added, "School, and then I'm going to the Vargas' house."

Gilbert mockingly swallowed his mouthful, showing the younger his milky-but-clean tongue, laughed at the disgusted noise and said, "I'll bet. Shame you're not ten years older."

"But then you'd be thirty and I'd have to lock you in an old people's home for being mean to me."

It was only a feat of awesome swallowing that kept Gilbert from choking as he laughed. Oh, he loved Lukas so much. They passed the rest of breakfast in idle banter and laughter, before Gilbert took it on himself to walk Lukas to school.

"Say," he said at the gates, grip still firm on Lukas's hand despite the boy's attempts to break free. "Who normally walks you to school?"

Lukas shrugged. "Sometimes Ludwig does, but I normally walk myself."

"Come again?"

"Well, you're normally still asleep – you've got a hangover, why are you up by the way? – and father's gone really early, before any of us are awake, and Ludwig's not always here."

"Right," Gilbert began, a determined, angry note in his voice. He crouched to Lukas' level; his knees, bent as they were, reached Lukas' shoulders – kid was tiny, must be something to do with his genes. "From now on, no matter how much I curse and throw things at you, you make sure I'm up before you go to school. Who does he think he is, making his five-year-old son walk alone? After a fu-_freaking_ murder?"

"I'm old enough to look after myself," Lukas protested, but he looked a little sheepish. "Promise?"

Gilbert held a hand up between them, fist clenched but for his little finger. "Promise."

Lukas eyed it warily, but hooked his own around it anyway.

* * *

_That was nice of you._

"Lothar's an ass."

_You don't mean that._

"Oh yes, I do. What kind of father makes his kid walk to school alone when he's _five_? And, oh yeah, hello? _Murder_?"

_Be nice._

"Sorry."

Matthew appeared a few moments later, fading into existence with that same delicacy Gilbert had come to associate with Matthew alone; from what Arthur said, every Ghost approached their physical forms differently, and most tended to snap into being rather than fade, but Gilbert supposed it was just Matthew's personality, he was a fading sort. He was still vaguely translucent, having none of the solid outlines of living creatures, the air around him cold and stirring with a power Gilbert couldn't identify, a power that was different to the aura that surrounded Arthur, but came from the same place.

He shook himself when he found his eyes tracing the outline-less lines of Matthew's back and shoulders, the set of his jaw and the way his fingers laced as he sat fluidly at the edge of the lake, looking out over the water, contemplative.

Now was _not_ the time.

Not that it mattered, because the next thing Gilbert knew, he was spitting bile into the toilet bowl in the downstairs WC of his house, Ludwig's fingers holding his hair back, a chastising tone in his cousin's voice.

"What were you doing?" Ludwig asked, even though he clearly didn't want to know.

"I don't know," Gilbert replied around a dry heave. "I just… I blacked out."

When his throat had finished going through a cheese grater and his stomach had settled, he flopped onto the tiled floor and stared out-of-focus at his blond cousin, his own hair dishevelled and blue eyes distracted.

"I'm goin' to go see Artie," Gilbert decided. "See what he has to say about it all."

"Be careful," Ludwig warned as he turned for the door. "Feliciano says that Alfred's Facebook is waxing poetic about Arthur being ill."

"It's a hangover, dude," Gilbert dismissed, hauling himself to his feet. "He's always got one and Freddie's a tool to think it's worse."

* * *

The Kirkland house looked the same as it ever did; like he was repairing bomb-damage. Oh, the rosebushes were immaculate, and the ivy around the door that crept up the front wall was picturesque, but the windows were covered in paw prints and the grass was scuffed to hell and the gravel on the path was scattered everywhere. Gilbert had, over the years he'd known Arthur, come to associate the mess with one Alfred F. Jones. It stood to reason, as Gilbert navigated his way through the battleground, stepping over sports equipment, a spanner and skirting Alfred's Triumph to get to the fading red paint of the door, that Alfred would still be tearing Arthur's house up, since you know, Matthew wasn't even a month cold.

Heartless, Gilbert? Really? _Never_.

The lion's head doorknocker really didn't fit the door, but it made enough noise for Gilbert's unannounced presence to be heard. He shoved his hands in his pockets and waited, scuffing his toes in the faded Union Jack doormat. Artificial and entirely unnecessary lighting flooded it a moment later, and Gilbert looked up, mouth open to start speaking, only to find himself faced with the wrong blond.

What came out of his mouth was not what he was going to say, nor was it what he should have said.

"What are you doing here?"

Alfred scoffed and stepped aside to let the shorter man in. "Artie's ill, douchebag. I'm making sure he's alright."

"Ill? Again?"

The American shot him a sharp look. "You say that like it happens a lot."

"Uh, hello?" Gilbert pulled a face. "It's like he has AIDS or something, seriously, he's ill _all the time_. I'm waiting for him to just admit it."

Alfred thumped him, _hard_. So okay, maybe Gilbert deserved that one.

"You went out drinking last night," Alfred told him as he led the East German into the kitchen. "His hangover's knocked him for six. I think he might have had date rape in one of his drinks." His expression darkened. "Bloody frog."

"You seriously need to stop hanging with Arthur if you're going to say things like that. Why would Fran put date rape in Artie's drink, he knows he's taken."

"You what?"

Oh right, yes, whoops.

"Never mind. Is he awake?"

"I don't know, he was asleep last time I checked. If he's still asleep, don't wake him up, or I'll hit you so hard in the teeth, I swear."

Gilbert made a talking gesture with his hand, pulling an equally stupid face as he turned for the stairs. "Yeah, yeah."

Arthur _was_ asleep, but it was fitful. He looked, to be honest, like utter shit, worse than if there _had_ been date rape in his drink last night, which Gilbert was fairly certain there wasn't. His skin had an unnatural greenish tint to it; not the greenish tint of cartoon sickness, the lime-green of his eyes, the green of fresh grass. It shimmered across the bare skin of his arms, the back of his neck, across flushed cheeks and pasty pallor, sometimes there, sometimes not.

For a minute, Gilbert stood in the doorway, watching as Arthur tossed and turned in his bed, sheets twisted and damp with sweat and what was probably the stupid Yank's idea of taking care of Arthur by way of coke and badly-made cups of tea, and hell, even the sensible idea of _water_. Whatever. But the spell broke and he crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed, his hand coming up to rest on the black cotton on Arthur's shoulder, his skin looking even more sheet-white next to it.

"Christ," Gilbert whispered. "What happened to you? C'mon, Artie, get your act together, I need your help."

"Fuck off," came Arthur's grumbled response, and he turned away from Gilbert, curling into a ball against the wall, head buried between his knees and arms. He snapped straight, nearly punching Gilbert in the eye as if he wasn't bruised enough already, and stared, wild-eyed at him, barely three inches away. "Who let you in?"

"Alfred did."

"Of course."

"You smell like hell."

"I've got Ghost Sickness. You see how that feels."

"Matt possessed me."

"It's not like I expect you to under – what?"

Ha.

Gilbert nodded with that same mock sincerity that Arthur had turned into an art form. "Yeah, about half an hour ago. I threw my guts up for, like, ten minutes. Oh, by the way, you're glowing green, don't know if that's normal, or if Alfred's cooking is worse than yours."

Arthur, had his brain not flat-lined, would have smacked him for that, surely. As it was, he just sat there, staring at him with an incredulous, open-mouthed shock that looked really weird on him, given the scars on his face and the messy bed-hair.

"You what?"

"Matt. Possessed. Me," Gilbert repeated slowly, prodding Arthur's forehead and recoiling at the heat that burnt his fingertip. What the hell had Arthur _got_? Maybe he _had_ been slipped date rape. Roofies weren't uncommon here in St. Hetalia, it was how Gilbert ended up in the Asylum that night – well, part of the reason anyway, copious amounts of alcohol were also involved but that wasn't the point – but they were rare, and he never would have suspected Arthur to get date raped. He hadn't been to the best of Gilbert's knowledge, but maybe he _did_ have AIDS and he'd caught some weird bug off someone and oh God what if Arthur died as well?

"Breathe," Arthur chided, patting Gilbert's cheek a little more roughly than strictly necessary. "You need to breathe before you hyperventilate and pass out on me. I don't need this now." His voice was rough as anything, his accent dropping further south, Mancunian rather than Geordie, and Gilbert, as Arthur coaxed him into steadying breaths he didn't know he'd lost control of, wondered how it was he could change his accent depending on how well he felt.

When Gilbert had gained control of himself, Arthur smiled and nodded, eyes half-lidded. "There we go," and his accent was still in Manchester, but at least it was more familiar now. "I'm alright, Gil, I'm fine, I'm not going anywhere I won't return from. Now, go make me a decent cuppa or find me a beer or _something_, let me get dressed, and then we'll talk about this properly, live civilised gentlemen, rather than hormonal teenaged girls. Sound good?"

Gilbert nodded, exhaling slowly, and got to his feet. Arthur got to his feet as Gilbert went back to the door, and Gilbert looked back at him, grinning. Arthur stood there, one foot still on the bed, his socks twisted and boxers entirely inappropriately stars-and-striped, T-shirt sticky with sweat.

"What?"

"Your T-shirt says 'I see Dead People'." He laughed. "Oh my God, who got you that, I need to thank them."

Arthur's previously curious look turned exasperated, fuming and droll all in the same twitch of a dark eyebrow. "Alfred, obviously, now shoo."

"You're just going to go back to bed the moment I'm gone," Gilbert called as Arthur slammed the door shut on his heels, "So I don't know why you're bothering."

"Screw you," Arthur called over Gilbert's laughter.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I had a major panic that I wouldn't get what I needed to get into this chapter. Thank God for Adam Lambert and Taylor Swift – yes, Taylor Swift – getting me back on track. Which is something I honestly thought I'd never say. I'm writing this just before I go out for an awards night at my school; I got nominated for a creative writing award, which says a lot. LATER NOTE: I didn't win, surprise, sur-fecking-prise. However, earlier this year, I was put forwards to a publishing house, so screw the school. The only opinion I want is the English crew's, which I've got. They're my homies. I'm never saying that again.

Life **not being a game** is a true part of my life. The amount of stupid shit I come across on a day to day basis has led me to the conclusion that I want a hint button in my life.

For those who are currently unawares, **Marie Lateau** is my name for Belgium.

I can see **Gilbert being on FMyLife. **I really can.

Alfred's **Triumph** is a British motorcycle, oh yes, I played that card, shut up.

Ah, Gilbert, you insensitive arse. People with **AIDS get ill a lot**.

Unlike what a certain friend of mine would have you believe, **Arthur's Ghost Sickness** is not the ghost sickness of _Supernatural_. I didn't even mean to steal the name.

There are other types of **date rape drug** but roofies were the only ones I could spell without looking it up – again. Writing this fic has brought me to the conclusion that I dread the day my dad figures out my password because my internet history must look so freakin' weird without context.

You have no idea how tempting it was to write '**rough as a badger's arse**' instead of 'as anything'. You really don't know. I was in hysterics for a good ten minutes.

I see **England as a Geordie rather than as a Received Pronunciation**. For people who aren't English: Geordie = Newcastle. Mancunian = Manchester. Received Pronunciation = Queen's English. Mancunian comes from David Gray (see my artwork on dA, link in profile) who comes from Manchester. I imagine England to sound like him now. Apologies in advance for how badly I screwed their hair up.

I can't help how I see England; the only sane man half the time, and as the one who can **read people like** Gil and Al like **a book**, especially when he's known them for long enough to know that all that scares Gil is the idea of people he cares about dying.

Riddle me this; who didn't see the** "I see dead people" T-shirt **coming? Truth be told, neither did I! I was rereading Sherrilyn Kenyon's _Night Pleasures_and the scene about halfway through the book between Amanda, Kyrian and Talon in which Talon asks Kyrian if he was the bastard that got him the top. Kyrian says it was Wulf. Also side note; I love Jaden.


	6. Timestamp: Just Like You :USUK:

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **A lot of things are said and cards are laid on the bedspread.

**A/N: **So this is the first timestamp (Omake) out of what might be three, depending on how the storyline develops – I have a rough plan now, but you all know how flimsy those things are, and I'm terrible for sticking to plans, I'll write what I want *grin*. Anywho, have some unrequited US/UK action, set mid chapter 4, just before Gilbert goes to visit Arthur.

**OMAKE 1: Just Like You**

Arthur was ill, which wasn't really a surprise.

These days, he was always ill.

This wasn't to say he was a hypochondriac – Alfred had been forced to all but sit on the Englishman before, just to make sure he stayed put, because when he got ill, he got _really ill_ and would die if he went outside, it was that serious – but it seemed, to Alfred at least, that Arthur was always getting ill. It was a sad state of affairs, certainly, but Alfred was used to them well enough now that he took Arthur's pallid skin and sweaty forehead for what it was; a sign that he needed help he'd never be brave enough to ask for.

Matt had usually been the one to help Arthur out when he ill, just 'cause, you know, Matt knew how to deal with sick people – how to deal with _Arthur _when he was ill – but Matt wasn't here anymore.

A shuddering breath tore its way free and Alfred froze mid-step, staring resolutely at the stupid picture he'd drawn years ago, and why had Arthur kept it anyway it didn't mean anything it was just a picture of them before they had that massive fight after the Asylum and damn it all to hell and back he was tearing up and he'd promised himself he wasn't going to cry any more, _God_.

He wiped his eyes angrily and stomped off to the kitchen.

"Oi, you," he started, leaning against the doorframe and grinning. "Get back to bed before I carry you."

"Pfft," came Arthur's response, muffled around a mouthful of god-knows-what, ill-made scones, probably, or maybe some biscuits. (The wrapper on the counter, when Alfred looked later, told him that Arthur had just shoved several Oreos in his mouth in one go, the sentimental pig that he was.) "Like you could carry me anywhere."

To which Alfred rolled up his sleeves and slung a hungover and sick Briton over his shoulder and carried him to the stairs, at which point Arthur was yelling at Alfred's belt that he was about to hurl put him down, so Alfred did the gentlemanly thing and carried him bridal-style instead.

By the time he reached the smaller blond's bedroom, he'd been mostly asleep, sweat soaking Alfred's collar, mingled a little with what might have been tears, not that Arthur would ever admit to it.

For an hour or so, Alfred sat at Arthur's bedside, legs splayed as he sat against the mattress, listening to the unsteady breaths as he counted the heartbeats in the pulse under his fingers, hand wrapped lightly around Arthur's wrist. It was pounding, a too-fast, _ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump _that had a definite echo under it, like a second heartbeat. A quick, totally-clinical feel of Arthur's chest told him that yes, he only had one heart, and yes, he needed more sleep if he thought for a second that Arthur's home might be amongst red grass with a second sun rising in the south.

Alfred, if asked straight, wouldn't lie; Arthur's constant illnesses were beginning to scare him. At first it wasn't anything serious; he was too young to understand what the dark circles under Arthur's eyes meant, what the lethargic movements and dodgy accents represented. He just assumed that Arthur was being his usual literature-nerd self and staying up till all hours reciting Shakespeare in the mirror. As he got older and Arthur got smaller, he came to learn that Arthur was just being a typical Brit and getting pissed with that bloody Kraut all the time. Matt said there was more to it than that, but Alfred hadn't believed him.

He was willing to believe now, though, willing to accept that yes, there might be something else at work here, something more than a hangover and some date rape drugs. He was still holding out, of course, that that was all it was, but really, who was he kidding? Arthur had never been normal, why should he get normal illnesses?

"Oh, Artie," he sighed, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed as Arthur stirred in his sleep, lime-green irises – too bright against the black of his pupils and the bloodshot sclera – peeking out from half-closed lids up at him, taking a moment to focus.

"Blergh," Arthur groaned, shoving Alfred away, lurching to his feet and staggering across the landing into the bathroom, where he promptly emptied a night's worth of alcohol, a packet of Oreos and whatever other minute amount of food he'd consumed in the last twenty-four hours into the toilet bowl.

Alfred followed, holding his breath, a hand going to Arthur's messy hair to peel away from his face. It was tacky with sweat-damp gel and clung to his fingers, clumped together to stick up at all angles, making him more dishevelled.

"What did you do?" Alfred asked, aiming for light-hearted disinterest, and missing by a mile.

"Drank," Arthur grumbled, voice echoing in the porcelain.

"Mm, yeah, got that thanks, you stink. Matt was always better at this than me."

"You never gave two hoots," Arthur agreed in that same grumble, but allowed Alfred to haul him to his feet when his stomach was empty and shove him none-too-gently towards the sink and the toothpaste. He brushed his teeth obligingly as Alfred flushed the toilet and sprayed the air freshener – Lily of the Valley, really, were all blokes in England this soft? – to mask the smell of vomit as best he could. "You'd have left us all to bleed if you'd thought twice about it."

"Would not," Alfred grumbled, but it was an empty protest; he _had_ left them to bleed, hadn't he, too wrapped up in grieving for people he didn't know to save the people he _did_. What kind of hero was he, to leave innocents to take the fall whilst the villain walked away free? "Are you alright?"

Arthur spat toothpaste into the sink and coughed a little; his throat was dry, Alfred supposed, and resolved to get a bottle of water from the kitchen after he made sure Arthur was in bed. He nodded, though, even though they both knew he totally wasn't.

"You're green," Alfred supplied.

"Then don't ask stupid questions," Arthur slurred around a mouthful of plastic and bristles and toothpaste and spit. "'Ere, get us a cuppa would you?"

It was obviously just a ploy to get him out of the room whilst Arthur had a breakdown over whatever was wrong with him, but Alfred let him do it, went to the kitchen to make tea in a way he knew Arthur didn't like but Matt was the only one who knew how he liked it, because Alfred had never thought to pay attention, had never though Arthur would be unable to make the tea himself, and he was screwing up so badly, wasn't he? He'd relied on Matt so much that now he wasn't here, it was like a piece of him was missing too, and that sucked so bad, and it _hurt_. It hurt like someone had torn his heart right out of his chest and put the wrong one back in. It felt like what had happened to Matt – and he _knew_, he'd been told and he'd seen the body and it was gross, it was sick what they'd done to him, that was his brother, he was going to kill whoever it was that touched him – had been done to _Alfred_ even though he knew it wasn't possible. That phantom pain all twins felt at the pain of their siblings being hurt. It felt so much like Alfred would never be whole again, because he'd broken too many things too many times for anything to be fixed again.

He didn't realise he'd been stood at the kettle, staring off out the window above the sink for as long as he had been until Arthur reappeared, arms around his waist, sticky forehead against the back of Alfred's neck, spiky, sticky hair poking hard against Alfred's hairline and skin.

"I appreciate it," Arthur mumbled, his breath warm and minty against Alfred's collar, his lips chapped and dry as they brushed the nape of his neck. "I really do, though I know I don't say it. I want you to know, everything you did over the years, to me and to your brother, we both forgive you for it, that everything you're doing now, it's making up for it. You're a good lad, Al, remember that."

"Why does this feel like goodbye?" Alfred whispered, his hands slipping off the counter to wrap around Arthur's, to hold the Englishman tight. "Why does it feel like you're leaving?"

"I'm not going anyway I can't return from," Arthur mumbled back, but it sounded like a lie to them both. "I promise. I'll never leave you where you can't get to me. I won't leave you to be alone."

Alfred let go like he'd been burnt. How could Arthur read him like that? How could he be so ill as to puke his guts out and all but pass out, and yet lavish Alfred with sympathy like _he_ was about to die? Was this some British masochism? Was this a _joke_? _Oh, God, please don't let it be a joke_.

"Go back to bed, Artie, please," Alfred begged. "You're ill, and I don't want to get what you've got."

Arthur laughed, but it was a horrible, dry laugh, forced and not real and Alfred missed Arthur's real laugh, his real smile, missed the open and loving boy that had picked Alfred up after falling over in a puddle and lent him a spare top when a bully made him spill his juice on his own, missed the brother that Arthur had been in those early days, back when his Dad first married Arthur's aunt. Alfred had played a major part in killing the boy that became the bitter, broken man he saw in day-to-day life nowadays, but something else had happened, something Alfred had had no control over, something he didn't even _know_.

"You can't get what I've got, love," Arthur assured him, his flushed cheeks looking more sickly than ever, his skin so pale it was _green_. "Only a few people in the world can get what I've got."

"You're not making me feel any better, you know," Alfred told him, frowning over the rim of his glasses at the scarred, smirking man the other side of the room. Arthur danced out of reach when Alfred lunged to check his temperature; did he know Alfred had already had his pulse?

"Because it's all about you, obviously," Arthur told him, a haughty note in his voice as he raised his chin. It would have been impressive if he didn't look so wrecked, and not in a way Alfred entirely approved of. Not that he would approve of Arthur sleeping around, that's how you got AIDS and he was already convinced Arthur was terminally ill anyway without actual proof, _thankyouverymuch_.

"Please, Artie, just go to bed. Get changed and go to bed. I'll bring you tea and some of your god-awful scones with cream and jam and butter and I'll even bring you all your _Lord of the Rings_ books, 'cause I know you won't sleep, and you're such a nerd. But _please_, go to bed."

Arthur's head turned to the side, and his chin lifted a little, giving him a very calculating view of Alfred as he weighed the Yank's sincerity against his words. It seemed he was sincere enough – though really, was it possible to be any more sincere? – because Arthur nodded in acquiescence and turned on his heel and stumbled off up the stairs, making far too much noise than was strictly necessary. As Alfred shoved his head in the fridge, he supposed that was because Arthur wanted to make sure he knew he was holding up his end of the bargain, as though Alfred wouldn't hold his own.

To say he was surprised was an understatement.

"I didn't think you'd kept that T-shirt."

"Clearly I did."

"Have you got socks on?"

"Yes, _mum_."

"Good, can't be doing with cold feet. Now sit up properly, you don't want to spill tea everywhere."

"Christ, Alfred, I'm not an invalid!"

Alfred hummed idly, fussing with the blankets and ignoring the fact he knew Arthur wasn't wearing trousers underneath it, setting the tray on his knees and making sure the pillows were arranged to keep his head off the wall. "You're ill."

"I'm _fine_."

"You look it." Sarcasm, thy name is Alfred.

Arthur gave him a droll look, and Alfred couldn't help but reach out a hand and smooth a hand across the crease in his forehead, cup his cheek and run a thumb down his nose to straighten out the wrinkles. Arthur's eyes turned quizzical under their dark circles and bloodshot sclera, his lips parting as if to speak, but not daring to.

He ate in silence, Alfred thumbing through the dog-eared copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ he remembered being read to him back when he was first learning to read, Arthur's voice soft enough to lull him into sleep, the words washing over him like waves on a beach. He could feel those lime green eyes on the back of his neck as he sat there, skim-reading, but he paid it no heed.

"What's wrong?" Arthur asked eventually, hands wrapped around the mug of tea in his hands, half-drunk already. "You've been really quiet, clingy."

"I'm thinking."

"Shock horror," Arthur replied with that same sarcastic note, but there was soft grin in his eyes, so Alfred let it slide. "What about?"

"When I joined the army," he admitted after a moment, and felt, more than saw, Arthur stiffen behind him. "About why I did, and about how badly I screwed up."

"We needed you," Arthur told him, tone frosty, because he'd never admit _he_ needed Alfred, no matter how true it was. "And you swanned off to Fort Knox and made good with the commanders and went off to play hero."

"I didn't," Alfred whispered. "I swear I didn't. I did basic training, but couldn't go ahead, couldn't go out there. I didn't _want_ to go at all, Artie, I swear, I didn't want to leave at all."

"Then why did you?"

"I _had_ to. I had to get Liet out, even if just for a week."

"Do you realise what that _did_?" Arthur exploded then, a fist slamming against the mattress and rattling Alfred into stillness. "Do you realise how much shit I got into because of you?"

"You… what?"

"Oh yes, they arrested _me_, and Francis, and Ivan walked away because Taurys wasn't there to _back us up_. We were there with Alise's blood on our hands, and you nearly got us killed. Gilbert was in hospital already planning his escape route to Germany, and Matthew, God, Alfred did it even _cross _your_ mind_ what you'd done to your brother?"

Alfred gaped at him for a long, heart-wrenching moment, Arthur's expression tight, eyes hard, betrayed. They'd never spoken about it, not once since Alfred came back, his duffel weighing a tonne in his bruised arms, his face haggard and clothes a mess. He'd cried shamelessly on Arthur's doorstep until the Englishman had let him in with a soft shake of his head and a sigh. Alfred had showered and crashed on Arthur's couch, and they never talked about it.

But here they were, talking about it.

"I just… I thought I was doing the right thing," Alfred told him, a pleading note crossing his voice as he met Arthur's eyes as levelly as he dared; in all honesty, it was hardly level. He cowered under the weight of Arthur's glare, under the hurt he saw reflected in lime. "I… damn it all, Artie, I felt like I'd betrayed you all, letting Alise die like that. I promised you all that I wouldn't let you get hurt, and I promised her, Art, promised that she'd be okay, that Ivan wouldn't hurt her. And he did, and Liet needed help, and, and… and…"

Arthur sighed, shaking his head, eyes rolled skyward. "Breathe. Here." He handed the younger man a tissue, which Alfred accepted and noisily blew his nose, even as Arthur grumbled under his breath.

"Have you calmed down now?" Alfred nodded, so Arthur sighed again, and said, "Okay, so what's this 'and'?"

Alfred took a steadying breath, rocked a little as he tried to get his throat to work. He pressed the back of his fingers to his mouth, rubbed the end of his nose, and flicked stray hair from his face. It was only when Arthur slapped his hand down that he realised he was curling that strand again.

"I… It's _wrong_, Artie. In my gut, there's something _wrong_ with me, and it started with you and then Liet, and I thought… I thought if I went to the army, I could get rid of it, but it just got _worse_, 'cause I was away from you, and it wasn't _right_, but I was _wrong_ and I didn't know what to do."

Arthur frowned at him, licked his lips – Alfred's eyes traced the movement, and something inside him twisted at the wrongness, but it couldn't be helped, it was here to stay – and after a moment, let out a bark of laughter.

"Alfred, you utter _twat_," he chided, laughingly, but not cruel. "There's nothing wrong with being gay! It's certainly not something you should run from, especially not to the army! Honestly."

"I… But, Dad always said…"

"Our parents aren't always right, Alfred," Arthur told him softly, reaching up a hand that definitely wasn't trembling to stroke through Alfred's hair, brush it away from his face and cup his neck. "They pave our path, but we chose the route it takes through the woods."

"You don't mind?"

"Why would I mind? Have you forgotten who I've spent the last two decades of my life around?"

Alfred's smile was crooked, and shaky, but it was there, and Arthur answered it with his own. His fingers twitched against the back of Alfred's neck, reassurance that he hadn't given for years.

"Are you alright now?"

"I just… I still feel it." He put his hand against his gut, where the warmth from Arthur's hand was pooling. "Here. And it's not right."

Arthur leant forwards, just close enough that the echo of his breath whispered across Alfred's mouth, across his cheeks and tickled his nose. Reflexively, he jerked back, eyes wide.

"What the hell?"

Arthur was smiling that smile of his, the sly and ready little smile that promised something dangerous but fun, and the warmth spread through Alfred's body, and yet he shivered as though cold. "You'll be alright, lad," he promised. "Go do some more thinking. If you still feel the same at the end of the week, now it's out in the open, come talk to me again."

"You wouldn't turn me away?"

"You'd be on your arse now if I would. I will tell you my side when you are comfortable with your own. The decision you have to make, Alfred, is your own, and isn't something I can force on you, regardless of how I feel. Your terms, love, always your terms."

"But I…"

"Go think, and I promise I'll sleep. It's what you want me to do, right? To stop you from thinking I might keel over and die, don't give me that look, I'm not reading your mind, I'm just not stupid."

Alfred chuckled weakly as Arthur took his hand from Alfred's neck and shifted away, resting on his elbows, watching, always vigilant over Alfred, as though it was his duty and his duty alone to protect him, as though he fell from heaven for looking too hard. Alfred took the tray from his lap, wavering for a second, biting his lip, but he didn't know what he was wavering for. To say something? To lean in and kiss his forehead? His lips? What?

Think, that's all that Arthur was asking for. For Alfred to think it through, and then make the decision himself. He could do that, he'd done a lot of harder things.

"Get some rest, I'll come check on you in a bit."

"Go on, then," Arthur said, flopping back amongst his pillows, and sighing deeply, eyes slipping shut and lips curling into a smile. "Off you trot. No half-arsed thinking either, I'll know."

Alfred grinned at him, even though Arthur couldn't see it, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. The moment he was alone, his legs trembled, knees like jelly, and he leant against the wall with his eyes on the ceiling, breathing hard.

"Oh God," he whispered to himself. "Oh God, I'm in love with him."

**++End Timestamp++**

**NOTES::**

I'm shamelessly stealing from my own fic here; _Let Your Dreams Flood In_. Every time I write something solely USUK, it always takes the same format.

And the **Asylum makes its grand return**! Does anyone remember that from the original? It won't remain a noodle incident, it will be explained along with everything else… Provided I remember… Heh. Oh, and totally irrelevant but amusing side-note designed for There Was a Silence's want for America development; have any of you seen Paint It, White! ? IDEAS. 'SALL I'M SAYING. IDEAS.

Personally, I don't see the appeal of **Oreos** but some of my mates are absolutely mad for them. You totally know Arthur eats them in secret.

I'm such a nerd, I had to look up a **Doctor Who reference** just to make myself feel cool.

What's **USUK WITHOUT ANGSTY AU REVOLUTION?**

I thought it was only fair that I make Arthur **related to Alfred **somehow, but I needed to do it in a way that wouldn't have them related by blood because then it would incest and wrong and my OTP is twisted enough as it is.

It was going to be **all** **seven **_**Harry Potter**_** books**, but the last one wasn't published till 2007 (the story's set c. 2005), so I went for LotR instead, 'cause it's just as nerdy. I read Potter when I'm ill. Mum reads Rings.

Oh yes, Apollo, that was my maginifcent plot twist right there; **Alfred in the army.** This scene takes three historical events, try to work out which ones. It shouldn't be too hard. I'll clue you in; Arthur/Alfred, Alfred/Alfred, Alfred/Liet.

And I've just realised I should have made a **note about who Alise is**. I don't think it would give anything away, given it was explained in chapter 1 of the original version, but Alise is the personification of Livonia, the medieval equivalent of modern-day Estonia and Latvia both. I have her written as Taurys's sister, even though historically she woudl have been his cousin. She was dissolved as a country not long after a big fight with Russia. That says enough I think. (Yes, Silence, I copy/pasted, I'm just as much of a lazy arse as you are :3)

I see **Nantucket** as being a lock of hair that Alfred's curled around his finger so much that it's just started to grow straight up now. My brother has one.

Ah, **Puritan!Confused!America**, I love you.

Arthur's **falling from heaven** is of course, a reference to Britannia Angel, and a reference to the grigori, although they fell for wanting to sleep with humans, not for looking, but they are known as **the Watchers**. See what I did there? Shut up, it's 1 am.

**THIS IS LONGER THAN EVER OTHER CHAPTER WHAT THE HELL.**


	7. Chapter 5: Take Me Under

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **In which a lot is explained, but not a lot happens.

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to all of the reviewers I was too much of a noobsaur to reply to when I got the reviews 'cause I'm totally not stupid enough to put my alerts in my junk inbox by accident /fail. But in particular this one goes out to **There Was a Silence **who wrote a 5kk character review that squished my brain, **Purple Kimono**, who made my day extra special by sitting in a library, and for **Apollo Pompano** who has joint custody of the kids and puts up my vague spoilers.

**A/N2: **Also, I am so sorry for my bad typing skills, I mean really, reading back over previous chapters, I keep spotting typos, but I'm too lazy to go back and change them now. Oh, and BTW, art now up on my profile, go check it. Notes at end. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter 5: Take Me Under**

Arthur's idea, apparently, of getting dressed was to sling on a pair of ratty tracksuit bottoms that were stained with bleach and grease and hung so low on his hips he might as well not be wearing them. Gilbert silently thanked God that he'd changed his boxers to a more respectable pair – or, he amended, as respectable as skull and crossbones could be, anyway – but acknowledged that yes, he still looked like utter hell, and in the light coming through the living room's bay window, it was even worse; his skill sallow and pallid beyond Gilbert's, cheeks flushed and forehead damp, eyes shadowed and that greenish tint back with a vengeance.

The bizarre thing about it all was the way Alfred flinched when he walked into the room, staggered really, as though Arthur's very presence was an electric shock that ran straight through his system, and there were plenty of jokes Gilbert could make about that, but now _definitely_ wasn't the time. Instead, he watched them, how Arthur tried to act nonchalant but failed miserably, how Alfred straightened where he was stood in the doorway to the kitchen as though ready to bolt, and Gilbert wondered just _what_ had passed between them. A closer inspection of Alfred revealed an equally pale face, equally bloodshot eyes and shaking limbs.

Whatever had happened, Alfred was _terrified_. Something major had passed between them, something that had shaken Alfred to his core and left Arthur not much better off.

Oh Christ, Arthur had opened his fat mouth, hadn't he, and said something that made Alfred spilt the beans and say something that told Arthur how he felt, and _really_, how stupid did they want to be?

"Alright," Arthur began when the awkward silence had stretched on for a good five minutes, throwing a half-hearted glare at where Gilbert sat sprawled on the couch. As he passed, he kicked his feet – sans shoes, Gilbert wasn't a complete ingrate – off the coffee table. "Alfred, you might, oh hell, you might want to leave the room."

"Why?" Alfred demanded, a tremor in his voice. "What's he got to say that I shouldn't hear?"

Rather than say, '_he_ has a name', Gilbert turned to Arthur as the Englishman curled up in the armchair in the bay window and said, "I thought he was scared of Ghosts?"

"He is," Arthur replied, settling deeper into the upholstery and tucking his feet under him, looking out over the mess that was his front garden with idle fascination. "It's why I want him to leave the room before you start running your mouth off."

"Hey, if you're going to be like that, I'm staying!"

Arthur groaned, so low in his throat it was almost a growl; maybe it was. "Alfred, please, don't be a dick. Just do as I ask, please. I'll call you when we're done and you can come mother-hen me some more, but why not go X-box-Live-ing or whatever it is you do with your free time when you aren't making a mess of my front lawn, _please_." He wasn't going to repeat himself again, that much was obvious.

They eyed each other for a long, horrible minute, but eventually Alfred relented; a nod, a duck of the head and a step away to the door.

"Call me the minute he's out the house. I'll be at the _Leaning Tower_."

"Of course. Say 'hello' to Antonio for me, will you?"

Alfred laughed – forced, awkward, ashamed – and fled without another word. The Triumph on the drive roared, and he was gone, leaving Arthur to sigh and try to disappear into the overstuffed red brocade that was so classic of the Busby furniture line.

"Brat," he cursed, but he sounded fond. "Ten years off my life today alone."

"You love him really," Gilbert replied automatically, picking at a stray thread on his belt.

"I know," Arthur sighed again. "And I think he's just starting to realise that."

"Oh Christ, is that was that was about? Dude, kid's convinced gay is evil, what did you say to him?"

Arthur dismissed him with a stiff, "Not the point." He turned green eyes to where Gilbert had straightened himself out and opened with, "You say Matthew possessed you."

Gilbert nodded. "Yeah, it was weird, like he'd ripped my heart out of my chest. It was just so sudden, out the blue."

* * *

_Cold and dark, swirling like mist around him, over him, _in_ him, coiling tight about his throat, his wrists, his heart. Pinning him, holding him there, pure sensation. _

_But there was no fog, no mist. Just the lake, just the trees, just the sky._

_Blind, no air in his lungs, he was falling, endlessly, in water, in air, in nothing._

_It was cold here, wherever _here_ was, cold and wet and yet he was bone dry and stood in the sun._

_And he wasn't alone; there was someone else, someone familiar in all the wrong ways, coiling about him, seduction and a snake, a lover and a friend, poison and antidote all at once, filling him so completely he was left empty of everything that wasn't this sensation, everything that wasn't _him.

_And there was agony, pain filling him, rippling up his spine from his ribs, tearing his lungs and splitting his head, but it was okay, because he was safe here, safe in the arms of his beloved, safe with the knowledge that nothing could get to him here. _

* * *

"They do that," Arthur agreed. "The thing about Ghosts is they're souls. That's all they are. When they possess someone, they push their host's soul to one side." He gestured at himself. "It's why I'm glowing green, yes I had noticed before you pointed it out. Your soul is the colour of your eyes, and I'm fighting to keep my soul in my body. I don't know what tried to possess me, but it was strong." He paused and looked at his hands. "I think it might have been what was coming for us, back when Matthew first died. The day I was released and I gave you Matt's – ah – contact details. I've never felt anything like it."

"It's not anything _dangerous_, right?"

"I don't know what it was. It was angry, and hurt, and old. It's a good thing I was drunk, I don't think I'd have been able to hold on if I was sober." When Gilbert gave him a sharp look, Arthur nodded. "Think about it, when you're pissed, your body's thrown for a loop, your head's a mess. Whatever it was, it couldn't get a firm foot in to possess me fully. It was still enough to put me on my back though. It's why I'm ill. All clairvoyants have the ability to channel Ghosts, and they abuse it, the Ghosts, because we can give them a physical form, and that's all that they care for."

"But," Gilbert protested, leaning forwards, elbows on knees and eyebrows drawn into a frown. "You said I _wasn't_ a clairvoyant, so… How could Matt do it to _me_?"

Arthur drew a tight breath, eyes back on the scenery outside. It was raining lightly, a pathetic fallacy of the mood that was falling across the room, darkening the light outside, shadowing the room inside. Gilbert could smell it through an open window in another room, smelling of fresh air and a little bit of salt.

"You're not a clairvoyant," Arthur said quietly, assuring. "I know that for a fact. But Matthew… he's claimed you as his. I think… I think before he died, he was in love with you."

* * *

_It felt like everything and nothing, like he was full and he was empty, like he was everywhere and nowhere, like he was and he wasn't._

_It was sharing and it was giving, sharing and taking. The world didn't exist, just this feeling, the emptiness of death, the fullness of life._

_There was anger, and there was hate, but there was peace and there was love, and there was contradiction in every breath he couldn't take._

_Who was dead? Who was still alive? _

_**It's coming.**_

_**For you.**_

_**For me.**_

_**For them, us, all, none.**_

_**It wants what it couldn't have. And it knows we're here.**_

_What? There were words written on his eyes, across the infinite skies and it whispered across his skin, raising the hairs like a sub-zero breeze, flooding him with heat forever associated with one thing and one thing alone._

_Lips on his, but no pressure. A butterfly on his senses, sparking across his nerves. Fingers in his hair, fairy-stepping across his arms, his shoulders, down his spine, pulling him close and pushing him away, bringing him to the edge of the cliff, leaving him to look out over the drop and bringing him back into the darkness of the nothing, submerging him in the waters once again._

_His skin crawled, ecstasy and fear, love and sickness, hope and loss, everything and nothing._

_Endlessly, falling endlessly into the nothing and the everything._

* * *

"Say what?" He choked on his own saliva as he fought to get the words out and coughed into his knees for something that felt like a second, a minute, an hour.

"I might be wrong," Arthur shrugged idly, so sincerely nonchalant Gilbert didn't believe it for a second. "But that was the impression I got the night he died. Love is the strongest of all emotions. If it was strong enough to keep him Behind, it's strong enough to give him a free pass into your soul and, by proxy, your body."

Gilbert gnawed on his thumbnail for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"I don't know," Arthur scoffed, giving Gilbert an incredulous look. "It's not like there's a manual for this, it doesn't happen very often."

"Alright, alright," Gilbert conceded hastily, holding his hands up in surrender. "Don't bite my head off, Jesus."

Arthur scowled. "Shut your face."

Gilbert folded his arms, threw himself back against the couch and turned his face away, fully aware that between them, they'd just acted like a pair of teenaged girls, and he found it hard to care. Arthur said nothing for several minutes, coughing and sniffling and acting ill as he sat staring at the rain.

Eventually, he offered, "I'm worried for you."

"Huh?"

"It took me years to learn how to channel Ghosts properly through my system, how to shut myself off. It nearly hospitalised me the first time it happened, everything shut down. But you, you're okay. Why are you okay?"

Gilbert made a vague noise, lifting a shoulder but not unfolding his arms. "He just… left me, no prompting needed. Felt like he'd been torn free."

* * *

_Cold and dark, swirling like mist around him, over him, _in_ him, coiling tight about his throat, his wrists, his heart. Pinning him, holding him there, pure sensation. _

_But there was no fog, no mist. Just the lake, just the trees, just the sky._

_He was seeing, trees and sky and water, and there was air in his lungs, rushing through him and filling him, choking on his breath, choking on his life, and he was rising, out of the darkness and the nothingness and into a bright, warm world that seemed to be made of darkness and nothingness. _

_It was warm here bone dry and stood in the sun and yet he was cold and wet, surrounded by darkness and nothingness._

_And there was agony, pain filling him, rippling up his spine from his ribs, tearing his lungs and splitting his head, and it was wrong, it was leaving him bereft and empty and without anything to hold him down. He was alone, left always alone, falling endlessly._

* * *

"I suppose it's possible," Arthur reasoned. "If he loved you as much as I think he does, it might have been enough to keep your soul separate from his, but I don't know how long it'll last, I mean, you're strong, but Matt's stronger, he's _dead_, so he'll be able to wrestle control from you without thinking twice about it. If he had to tear himself free, he must have latched on pretty tightly to you in the first place."

But something had caught Gilbert's attention, and he crossed the room to the fireplace, a picture on the mantelpiece, even as Arthur kept talking. He rested his arms on the stained mahogany, leant in close to frown at the faces grinning back at him.

"This picture, when was it taken?"

"Oh, ignore me then. What picture?"

"This one, with you, Matt and Alfred, with the toys."

Arthur had to get up and have a look. He still reeked of sweat and death and illness, but Gilbert could smell Lynx on his clothes, vaguely, the scent of myrrh and frankincense, fresh air and dusty feathers filling the air between them. The Englishman picked at his Glasgow Smile for a minute, and then made a noise of recognition.

"Oh, that. Alfred was on an exchange program when he was in High School, with a Japanese lad. Went out over there and spent a fortune on this line of soft toys that Kiku had recommended him; what was it called? Studio DEEN? Oh, I don't know, something daft and completely unrepresentative anyway. But there was a load of them, and Alfred bought us all one, because you know what he's like. I ended up with the _Flying Mint Bunny_ – I know, right? I've never been so embarrassed in all my life. And Timo got given _Hanatomago_ purely on the grounds that he'd babysat Peter whilst I took Alfred to the airport. Alfred bought a whole line for himself, the _Mochi_ line or something, I never paid much attention to it. But Matthew," he hummed, touching a fingertip to the grinning, bespectacled boys in the photograph, Alfred tanned and with a silly airbrushed tattoo on his arms as he clutched at a whale toy almost as big as he was, Matthew with a comely blush on his cheeks and leaning into a decidedly unimpressed Arthur that stood glaring out of the corner of his eye at Alfred, unaware of the American boy's hand making a rude gesture behind his head. In Matthew's arms was a polar bear, big enough to look like a life-size cub. "Matthew loved that toy. Absolutely adored it. _Kumajirou_, I believe it was called. When he got it, he refused to put it down for longer than a minute, like he was scared to lose it. It was one of the few things Alfred had ever truly bought him without reason, and it was so important to him. But when he got too old for carrying it around, he left it on his bed, kept it there under lock and key."

Gilbert looked askance at the nostalgic look on Arthur's face. "Where is it now?"

Arthur's trance broke almost as suddenly as he'd entered it. "The bear? I don't know. It should still be in his room."

"I've been there," Gilbert explained. "The day of his funeral, I went there, looking for the clue. He said it was there, but it wasn't. Do you think it was the bear?"

"I think it must be, I mean, if it's not in his room – which, by the way, you could be arrested for – he must have taken it with him. Oh Christ, Gil, do you think he _knew_ he was going to die? I mean, he bought Alfred his Triumph, used his college fund for it, spent every last cent on it like he wouldn't ever need the money, like he'd never get to college. Jesus, what if he knew it was coming and he tried to warn me or his brother, and neither of us listened? _Oh Christ_ – Gil, this could be my fault."

Gilbert caught his wrists and held him still, nose-to-nose even as Arthur panicked. "Stop it now, don't go there. You couldn't have known. If Matt knew he was going to die, why would he have Stayed Behind? He would have already made his peace and been ready to move on and all that jazz. He didn't know, so he couldn't have warned you. I don't know why he took the bear with him that night, I don't know what he was doing, but I promise you, Arthur, I'll find it, and I'll sort this mess out.

"For now, what I want you to do – no, look at me, come on, look at me, there we go – what I want you to do is rest up, get whatever it was that possessed you completely out of your system, and I want you to keep Alfred under wraps. If he gets wind that I've got anything to do with Matt, he'll – hell, I don't know what he'll do. He won't leave me alone, that's for damn sure. So you take care of yourself, and I'll take care of Matt. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Arthur, and it isn't yours to carry."

"It's not yours, either."

"No, but I'm in deep now. I'm here for the long haul. You're not alone in this."

Arthur frowned at him. "I never said I was. Shit, Gil, be careful. If Matt's possessed you, it means he's losing his humanity, what made him who he was. Just please, be careful, Matt's _dangerous_ now, volatile. If he manages to get control of you again, Gil, he might not relinquish control."

"Then I'd better find that bear, huh?" Gilbert's grin fell flat, Arthur looking more worried than ever. "You'll just have to teach me how to keep my head messed up enough, then, won't you? What should I do? Count in jumbled sequences with decimals? Recite bad poetry? Come on, you know me, I can keep Matt out."

"What a load of bollocks." But he was smiling now, a little relieved, but still stressed. "Alright, Gil, I'll hold you to it. Finding the bear, I mean. I doubt you'll be able to hold Matt off if he tries to take over again, but yes, think in jumbled patterns. Don't get pissed, you know you're not supposed to. Try not to give him occasion to possess you, Gil. Please. No matter what he says or does, please." The frown returned. "I've told you a lot, make use of it."

If asked later, Gilbert would deny giving Arthur a brotherly kiss to the forehead, but he did it anyway, and left the Englishman to his thoughts, wrapped up in his own.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I love listening to the rain whilst writing. Just sayin'.

_**Biblical imagery**__, me? Surely not. Of course there is, I always have biblical imagery._

_Who is that in the __**first segment**__? You decide._

**OH ARTHUR YOU FOOL. **I say that because I know what's coming.

_Taking an A-level in Psychology has given me nothing but the ability to be __**Freudian in how I use my innuendo**_.

**Lynx**= the English brand name for which brand, go on. It begins with an E, and has to do with wings. And it doesn't actually smell like any of things, trust me, I wear it. But it seemed like a slightly biblical, angelic way of describing it. IDEK.

Oh yes, I'm getting all the little nuances in, including **Busby's Chair** and the **animal companions**. That solve the obvious mystery, Mystery Inc.?

I might be making this up, but I think **Studio DEEN** did the animation.

Interesting side note about **Word's grammar**; it told me that 'that's' in 'that's for damn sure' was wrong, and that it should be 'that am'. At what point in the history of ever was that ever correct grammar?

Long, boring chapter is long and boring. Thoughts? Are you surprised, annoyed, did you see it coming? **++Vince++**


	8. Chapter 6: Get Out Alive

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **The doors have opened, and the memories are flooding in.

**A/N: **Uh…Warning? Notes at end. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter 6: Get Out Alive**

It was raining. It had been raining on and off for the last few days, since Arthur fell ill, as though the world had stopped because the bloody Englishman was incapacitated. But, Gilbert supposed, sitting at a window table with his head in his head, Feliciano jabbering in his ear from the other side of the table whilst the other side of the café, Lovino cursed him out in Italian, Antonio cooing over him all the while, it kind of had. There wasn't much Gilbert could do without being able to pick Arthur's brain, and it wasn't like Alfred was letting him in again. He'd tried.

"So, yeah, apparently someone broke into the Asylum yesterday, and one of the upper floors collapsed. No one was hurt, so Ludwig says, but they've cut the Asylum off from town, no one can get near it. They're planning to knock it down now, stop it happening again."

Gilbert bolted awake at that, turning from the patterns the rain made on the window to gape at the little redhead sat opposite him, oblivious to the world around him, sketching in a new notebook that was blatantly a present from Ludwig. "What was that?" When Feliciano didn't reply, Gilbert snapped his fingers in the Italian's face. "Yo, kiddo, what was that about the Asylum?"

Feliciano looked up in shock, apparently having forgotten that Gilbert was even there. He grinned at the East German with that same guileless innocence that had apparently snagged Ludwig's heart from his chest if the Italian's next words were anything to go by.

"Yeah! It was all over the news this morning. Ludwig wouldn't talk to me whilst he was watching the report, it was scary! He looked so intense, like he might break something. I'm so glad it wasn't me!"

To which Lovino stomped over and began cursing Ludwig out, even as Antonio tried to tug him back behind the counter where he couldn't do any serious damage. For his part, Gilbert let them get on with it, mind working a mile a minute. The Asylum, really?

_Have you looked there?_

He shook his head subtly, frowning a little. He'd not wanted to look there, if he was honest, because the memories that place held were not the most pleasant ones he still had. The thought of going there now left him cold, and it seemed that it showed on his face, because Feliciano leant across the table to cup it in his hands, frowning.

"Can I help you?" Gilbert asked, blinking a little, cross-eyed.

"You look sad."

"I'm fine, kiddo. I'm fine. Just thinking about the Asylum."

Feliciano frowned some more. "But why would you think about things that make you sad? I don't understand." Comprehension dawned on his face. "Oh, is this to do with Matthew and Alise and everybody else that died?"

"Something like that."

The door clattered opened, bell ringing, and German curses filling the sudden silence. Feliciano let go of Gilbert like a hot coal and leapt from his seat, snagging Ludwig around the waist and seemingly not caring – or hell, maybe not noticing, he wasn't the most observant person in the world – about the sopping fabric of the taller man's jacket.

"Ludwig! You came!"

Ludwig pulled a face over Feliciano's head, silently daring Lovino to comment. He looked about to, so Gilbert made a clatter as he too rose from his seat, drawing the attention to himself and off his brother.

"Well, I'm off. I want to have a look at the Asylum."

"You won't get in," Ludwig warned him.

"Who said anything about getting in? I said '_look at_' not '_look in_'. Sheesh, West." Gilbert gave his cousin a dirty little look that clearly questioned his intelligence.

Ludwig glared back, so Gilbert ducked behind Feliciano and through the door in three long strides, laughing all the way.

Matthew was on him the minute he was out of eyesight of the public, arms tight about him and clinging on like he was the only thing keeping him upright. He was apologising profusely again, skin cold and clothes wet even as Gilbert hauled them both down the path to the lake, all but dragging Matthew along behind him.

"I'm so sorry," he was mumbling in Gilbert's ear as they went. "I never meant to hurt you, never."

"Matt, Jesus, I'm fine, drop it already. You've been apologising all bloody week."

"But," Matthew began helplessly, clinging even closer. "I didn't know that would happen, I just thought, I thought I could _show_ you what I couldn't say."

Gilbert shrugged, his hands coming up to meet the Canadian's own, and pulling them away from him. There was an awkward moment as they twisted, trying to find their way around each other, but that's okay, they find their place eventually, sat against the rock with their limbs tangled, Matthew sprawled unseemly across Gilbert's lap, his face in Gilbert's neck as Gilbert buried his nose behind Matthew's ear, pressing into his hair and into the cold of his skin and not caring in the least.

He must have been sat there for a good hour, and maybe even fallen asleep, because the next time he raised his eyes, the sky was black with thunder, and lightning was splitting the sky.

"You should get inside," Matthew told him, lips moving against the underside of his jaw. "Before the storm really hits. You don't need to get ill on top of me losing control."

Gilbert shrugged idly, nose still in blond hair. He could smell the bruises on Matthew's face, taste the tang of the silt on the lake bed, and he wouldn't change it for the world. "I'll be fine, don't worry."

"Gil, go home, now."

All it did was make Gilbert laugh, but he detangled himself from Matthew's mostly-solid limbs, and did as asked, Matthew still vaguely clinging to him, the way the Ghost was always clinging to him. It wasn't as though Gilbert minded, so he let him do as he would, still revelling a little in the feel of arms constantly around him.

The storm hit at about one that night, and the thunder was loud enough that most of the house was jolted awake. Gilbert had yet to go to bed, thoughts of attending a lecture at the Academy in the morning virtually non-existent. End of the academic year or not, his attendance had been slipping drastically, preferring to spend time with Matthew or Arthur, or with Francis at the club, going as far as to take extra shifts at the mechanic's garage. He had a plan for the money, a vague one, but a plan nonetheless.

Lukas came staggering downstairs shortly after the first bout of thunder, clutching at a toy mouse with a broom that Gilbert thought might have come from a children's storybook series, Lothar nowhere to be seen. The tiny little thing looked so frightened that Gilbert took pity, pulling him by his armpits into his lap, giving the boy a view out of the living room window seat, the rain lashing he glass and lightning splitting the sky.

"It's the thunder I don't like," Lukas admitted eventually, voice muffled in the heavy cotton of Gilbert's zip-through sweater. "It sounds like fighting."

Gilbert dropped a kiss into Lukas' hair, reassuring despite the boy's agitated squirming and grumbling, and because he was nothing if not a good big brother-cousin, he hummed an old lullaby, one Mina had taught him years ago, one she'd admitted to wanting to sing to her children, should she live long enough to have her own.

Five minutes later, Lukas was asleep.

It was a testament to Feliciano's charm and the time he spent around Ludwig that Gilbert didn't even blink when he entered the kitchen after putting Lukas back in bed to find the Italian in there.

Instead, he opened conversation with; "Does West know you're here?"

"He was asleep when I got up. You should eat," Feliciano announced then, a chiding tone in his voice. "You look so ill, and a big brother should never be ill!"

He wasn't particularly hungry, just tired, but he nodded anyway. "I will do," he promised. "You should get to bed, Feli. Try not to wake West up, though, I don't need him waking Lukas up again." He paused, and then added, "Say, would you do us a favour?"

"Anything!"

"If something happens to me – I'm not saying it _will_, don't give me that look – I'm just saying it _might_, because you never know, and I _am_ an albino and we don't have the best luck, promise me you and West'll look after Lukas. Get him out of here if you have to, but look after him for me."

Feliciano looked unnaturally serious. "I promise. Grandpa Rome would adopt Lukas if anything did, he doesn't trust Lothar at all, says he's bad news. But he really likes you, Gil, he says you're so devoted to your family you're practically one of us, and that's good enough for all of us. I might not be good at a lot of things, but I _am_ good with family. It's as important to me as it is to you. I promise you, I'd treat Lukas as my own little brother."

A weight had been lodged in Gilbert's throat and chest, too heavy to be his heart, but as the words sunk in, it dissipated, leaving Gilbert to smile gratefully. "Thanks, kiddo. Now, seriously, get back to bed. If West wakes up…"

He was given a rib-crushing hug in response and Feliciano disappeared upstairs. A moment passed, the only sounds the thunder and the rain, his heartbeat in his ears, pounding like he was running a marathon, and then Feliciano's quiet laughter came, muffled, down the stairs, accompanied by Ludwig's irritated, but unfelt, grumblings. Before the laughter had died, Gilbert was out of the house and halfway down the street.

Matthew's footsteps soon joined his, and kept pace with the East German's stride. The Canadian was looking confused, and even a little worried, and he looked completely solid. It would have been believable if the rain wasn't slicing through him and he was still vaguely dry.

"Where are you going?"

"The Asylum."

"What?" Matthew squawked. "But I thought you said you didn't _want_ to go!"

"I _don't_!" Gilbert snapped, and drew to an abrupt halt. "Christ, Mattie, I _don't_ want to go there, but people went there last night and something happened, something the police are covering up. They're saying the floor caved in, but I don't buy it. I was _there_, Matt, when Alise died, you know I was. There was no way the building's bad enough to collapse. No way." He laughed bitterly, but it sounded like he was choking. "Between the Asylum and Ivan's place, I'd rather go to the Asylum."

"In the middle of the night? When no one knows you're there? What if you're wrong? What if it _is_ collapsing? What if you get _stuck_? God, Gil, are you even _listening_ to me?"

"Of course I'm not," Gilbert replied, walking again. "I've already made up my mind, and you can't stop me." He cast a sly look to his side. "Unless there's something you're not telling me."

_No. Nothing._

"Right then."

The town had never been so quiet. What with the storm, Francis had closed _The Louvre_, so there were no party-goers; late night workers were apparently waiting the storm out, and Gilbert had never felt so blissfully alone. He didn't talk to Matthew again as he crossed town, skirting the lake and taking the tarmac path through the woods, dodging a police patrol and what might have been a badger before reaching the wire fence.

_Don't do this._

"I've got to."

_Please. Stop._

"Matt, stop it.

_*/++__D__**o**__ n__**O**__t __**E**__nT__**e**__R__.++\\*_

"The hell?" Gilbert would deny later that his voice took on a falsetto that made him sound entirely too feminine and entirely too scared.

"That," came a familiar voice from behind him that didn't make him jump a mile. "Was the thing that tried to possess me."

Arthur was wearing a hooded sweatshirt that was blatantly Alfred's if the alien head and printed slogan 'Tony's Deli, in Roswell since 1947' on it were any indication, and for the first time since they'd hit puberty, his hair was flat against his forehead. He was, obviously, soaking wet and looking entirely ridiculous with a put-out, half-smoked cigarette in his mouth and in suit trousers with a pair of battered trainers on his feet.

"What are you doing here?"

"The only way you could have been more conspicuous is if you painted yourself white and danced naked with a neon sign above your head. I saw you skulking down the street when I stepped out to have a fag because Alfred hates me smoking inside, says it places havoc with asthma he doesn't have and it doesn't take a genius to work out where you were headed."

All it did was make Gilbert scowl some more, but he had to give Arthur his due, he wasn't all talk and minimal looks.

"Alright," he said eventually. "So that was the thing that tried to rape you."

The disgusted look that was Arthur's default expression settled over his features, and he threw the cigarette into the mud, saying, "You're disgusting."

_*/++__L__**e**__a__**V**__e__.++\\*_

"Oh, shut it," Arthur told he voice, and pointed to a sagging bit of fencing near the gates. "Boost me over that, would you? I'll unlock the gates."

"Get off, why don't _you_ boost _me_?"

"Because I weigh nine stone and have the muscle strength of a twelve-year-old girl, and you weigh at least twelve in muscles strength alone, that's why, fatass."

"Douchebag." But he laced his hands together and crouched a little, feet planted stably, knees bent to support Arthur's weight as he climbed up, so it was a moot point.

Granted, Arthur did weigh less than he looked, so Gilbert easily shoved him over the fence, patting his backside and narrowly avoiding a kick in the teeth in the process. The gates were opened a fraction, one yanked away from the other with just enough space for Gilbert to slip through, and they proceeded up the steps to the front doors.

"Let me guess," Gilbert said when he'd tried the doors and found them locked.

Arthur grinned at him, a vicious little grin, and wordlessly, Gilbert shoved him through the broken window at the top of the doors. The heavy clunk of the lock stumped him for a moment, but he squeezed his way inside anyway.

_*/++__I__**n**__tRu__**d**__Er__**s **__w__**iL**__l__** p**__Ay__.++\\*_

"Suck my balls." Gilbert turned to look at the doors, and rattled them again. "Why were they locked from the inside? I thought kids broke in."

Arthur gave him a droll look in the dusty, lightning-lit darkness. "How did you just get me inside, Gil? I mean, _really_. Oh, and by the way, this place is haunted or did you forget? Didn't it occur to you that maybe, just maybe, the doors might have locked themselves?"

Despite what Arthur seemed to believe, that didn't comfort Gilbert in the least.

"This place is _thrumming_ with energy," Arthur mused. "Shit, it's dark. Have you got a light?"

"What would I have a light for? You're the smoker!"

"It's on the blink. Gimme a min – there should be an acetylene lamp around here somewhere. I left it in the foyer after the police showed up."

"You're glowing green again."

"And you're glowing red. It's the psychic residue of the patients; ignore it and help me find that lamp. It should still have some carbide left in it."

It was, of course, on a bloody shelf out of either of their reaches, and it was only because Gilbert was scratching the underside of his jaw that he happened to spot it at all. As a result, Arthur was all but forced to stand on Gilbert's shoulders to reach it, and spent a good few minutes cursing the weather as he tried to fill the top with water by sticking his hand out of a window. Gilbert told him what he thought of this process, and got a stream of swearing back.

When he's succeeded and the lamp was lit, they both sucked in their breaths.

"Shit," Gilbert whispered. "What is this? A freakin' horror game?"

"Worse, there's no Alfred painted blue with fake blood on his face, so this is real. Sorry, mate."

They picked their way through the rubble, debris and dust, stepping out over boxes of paperwork and skirting around wheelchairs. Once, Arthur nearly tripped over a porcelain sink that had been thrown out of a bathroom, and Gilbert _did_ trip over a pipe torn from the floor. The light from the lamp in Arthur's hand cast extended shadows across the floors and walls, the graffiti – from intruders and patients alike – picked out in shades of blood-red and mould-black.

Matthew had vanished entirely – maybe Arthur's big Ghost had scared him off, or maybe something else had happened. Gilbert didn't know, and didn't really care either.

"Have you seen Matt's bear?" he asked after ten minutes of wandering the wards.

"No, you?"

"No."

Arthur stopped in the middle of the recreation room and frowned at a wheelchair, tipped on its side and the wicker rotting. Its wheel was spinning. The more he frowned, the more it span.

"The psychic residue is beginning to worry me. I'm used to it in large amounts, and with this level or anger, but something's _wrong_ – like there's something here that shouldn't be, but I can't work out _what_."

Silence settled over them, Arthur musing and Gilbert unsure about what to say. Together, they looked out over the broken pool table and smashed television set, the tattered books and half-finished checkers game. There was dust and blood, grime and decay, and the Academic part of Gilbert's brain itched for his camera.

And then, out of nowhere, the chunk of battered technology he called a mobile phone rang in his pocket.

"Are you going to get that?" Arthur asked, idle with curiosity.

"I've got no signal," Gilbert said, when he'd pulled it from his pocket and stared at the display, or lack thereof. "There's no display. My phone's ringing, but no one's calling me, dude."

"Answer it. Now."

The fearful urgency in Arthur's tone was enough to shock Gilbert into doing as he was asked.

It sounded as though it was a bad reception, or maybe a bad recording. Static and white noise filled the silence between the two boys. And then –

"_Come play with us, Gil! Ivan's invited everyone to come and play, and he wants you there too! Bring Arthur with you, I know he's there too! Come on, Gil, don't be a spoilsport, it'll be fun!_"

The name came unbidden, torn free from his throat in a gasping, breathless, single word. "_Alise_…"

"Gil," Arthur warned. "She's _dead_."

His look was plaintive. "Artie, that's what she said that night – minus the bit about you, you weren't there, were you? I don't know, I can't remember. But that's _what she said_. She thought it was an innocent game, that it was just the big scary high-schoolers playing truth or dare in a haunted place because we were such hardballs. And I _could have saved her_, I could have put a stop to it all, but I was _drunk_, Artie. I'd been stupid enough to get pissed and let Francis persuade me into taking E."

"It's this place," Arthur decided. "Drawing on the memories we share. Remember, Gil, what's done is done, and Alise isn't talking to you on the phone, no matter what it sounds like."

"But what if she Stayed Behind, Arthur? What if she's trapped here, and we never knew?"

"Oh, for – Gil, _wait_!" Arthur cried, nearly tripping in his haste to follow Gilbert, who'd shot off through the doors at the far side of the room. "Gil! It isn't _real_!"

But Gilbert wasn't listening, tearing through the corridor with the same hurried abandon he's had when Arthur had finally found him after getting that phone call from Feliks begging for help. There'd be crying and screaming and laughter, and the memory sent a chill down his spine even as the air around him dropped, breaths fogging at the very edges, a subtle warning.

"Gil!"

The East German pulled to a stop, body slamming into the wall as though shoved there. Arthur skidded to a halt next to him, eyes wide and the light from the lamp flickering dangerously. There might have been a message in there, but Arthur wasn't looking.

Her hair with its thick fringe and long waves that were so very nearly curls, her vest and hot pants and chunky trainers, all blurred into each other as her featureless face grinned, turning back to stretch her free arm back to Gilbert, inviting.

Taurys had her free hand in a death-grip, and he looked as terrified as a ghost with no face might. The only time Arthur had seen him that night had been at the end of it, when he was covered in dust and blood and the sleeve of his shirt had been torn off. He too looked back at Gilbert, and Gilbert, fool that he was, spoke.

"Are you seeing this?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"_Why_?" The word was a choked sob, a broad 'why'.

"Because it wants us dead. Gil, this isn't _real_."

Gilbert turned to look at Arthur, his eyes tortured and tears on his cheeks, chewing on his lips as he struggled to breathe. He looked horrified and pinned and Arthur felt like utter shit for doing to him what he'd done that night.

"What if the others are here?" Gilbert asked, already looking at the double doors at the end of the corridor, at the falling sign hanging above them, the fading stencilled letters reading 'maximum security.' One of the doors swung open slowly, partway as though pushed, and though it was pitch black inside, there was a pinprick of light that couldn't be reflected from the lamp.

Arthur exhaled hard through his nose. "Gil, this is what it wants you to do. It _wants_ you to relive the _most traumatic night of your life_, because it _wants_ you to _destroy your mind_. It's an _abandoned mental asylum_, that's what it does. Now, stop following the ghosts into maximum security, 'cause I'd like to get out of here _before_ the sirens start, if it's all the same to you."

He reached out to grab the other's wrist, too slow and he was left with no option but to follow the East German at a jog, cursing all the way.

Gilbert burst through the doors, the hinges screeching and knocking a gurney over. He stopped dead, breaths catching in his throat, eyes transfixed on the middle of the room. He knew, logically, that what he was seeing couldn't be really, everything was flickering in and out of sight as though he was watching a badly-tuned TV, but they were here, all of them, and it was happening again, and he was being pulled deeper and deeper into the memory and there was nothing he could do about it except take the same measured steps he had back then, and sink into the spot between Alise and Feliks that had been reserved for him.

"_We're playing a game_," Ivan was saying, even as he looked up to see Arthur burst through the doors after Gilbert. "_It's a very fun game_."

"Gil, come on, get up!"

Hands clutched at his arms, the back of his T-shirt, but he shook them off, eyes on the revolver in the middle of the circle, a twisted spin the bottle. His heart was pounding in his ears, and Feliks was leaning over to whisper something to him, but he couldn't hear it, just the _thump, thump, thump_ of his heart, of the rain on the windows,the sound of five rounds clinking on the linoleum of the floor echoing in the silence. His breaths were shaking, everything getting out of control, and he was falling, endlessly, into the darkness and there was nothing that could stop it from happening all over again.

"For Christ's sake, Gilbert! Get up!"

"_Ah, A__**r**__t__**h**__ur, d__**o**__ y__**ou**__ w__**is**__h t__**o**__ pL__**a**__y t__**o**__O_?"

"No, go back to hell, and stay there, you aren't real. None of you are real." Gilbert could feel Arthur's hands under his arms again, hauling at him, but he remained seated, ignoring the Englishman snarling behind him. The revolver was spun, completed one circle, two, and landed on Taurys.

Barrel to his head, he pulled the trigger and the click made him expel a shaky breath and spin it. One circle, half, Gilbert. He repeated the motion, head thudding through his chest, and the gun clicked again.

On and on it went, three more rounds, Feliks, Raivis, Ivan, _click, click, click _before the revolver finished, one, two, three circles and slowed to a stop. Alise.

Logically, Gilbert knew what was about to happen, knew he could stop it, slap the gun from her hand and save her life, but he was transfixed, unaware of anything around him. Arthur's hands came up over his eyes, blocked out the sight of what happened, but he could still see, it was in his mind's eye, etched onto his memory.

A gunshot, and blood showered the air, Taurys, Gilbert, the gun and Alise, and she collapsed next him, utterly lifeless and everything was flickering; his audio, his visual, every sense disappearing from his system, leaving him in the nothing, and he was suddenly on his feet, Arthur's arm around his waist, an arm tugged over the Brit's shoulders and clutched with the same hand that held the lamp and he was being coaxed into running, even as the lamp died and the screaming started, everything flickering and jarring, the smell of blood and rust and death filling the air, choking him, drowning him in the darkness.

Coughing as though choking, Gilbert jolted awake, rain on his skin, a knee in the lake, prone in the mud with Matthew's hands in his hair. His heart was beating, slow, slow, slow, too slow and yet too fast at the same time, throbbing in his chest and in his ears, pounding at his skull.

He rolled over, hacking out what tasted like blood, what felt like hell, and rasped, "What the hell? I thought… I thought I went to the Asylum."

"I thought you did too," Matthew replied, his voice on Gilbert's peripheral. "I tried to follow, really I did, but something blocked me. Kept me out. What happened, Gil? There was screaming, and a gunshot, and there was a light, but there was nothing in there. I got in, eventually, and there was nothing there. Just an old carbine lamp burning in the foyer like it had been placed there."

Gilbert frowned into the rain. "I thought… Matt, shit, I don't know. I don't remember. I just… Alise died. I saw it happen, _again_, and I couldn't stop it, and it _hurts_, it hurts so much."

Matthew hushed him, arms coming up to pull Gilbert into a rough embrace, hiding them both from the world in a coil of fog and rain, of death and flickering lights.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

…


	9. Chapter 7: Lost in You

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **The doors have opened, and the memories are flooding in.

**A/N: **I wonder if anyone's listening to these songs as they appear. If you are, it's probably making this one exceedingly obvious. Notes at end. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter 7: Lost in You**

Gilbert was so shaken by what happened that Matthew had no way of rousing him enough to get him home. As much as he tried, Gilbert was unresponsive, eyes unfocused in the general direction of the Asylum, and though he was shaking like a leaf, he didn't appear to be aware that he was being rained on. As much as Matthew shouted and screamed, pushed and pulled, he received nothing to say that Gilbert was even _aware_ of his presence, let alone listening.

Eventually, he conceded defeat.

"Gil, I really don't want to do this, I really, really don't. Really, I mean it, but you're not giving me much choice. I have to get you home, and it's not like I've got any way of doing it, not in any way that won't cause problems for everybody involved. Gil, oh _Christ_, Gil, I'm going to have to possess you."

There was no reaction.

"Oh come on, Gil, please. Give me _something_ to work with here. At least _look_ at me, please."

Nothing.

Matthew let out a strangled scream that echoed across the lake, and silence fell. Gilbert did not react, and an utterly still moment passed in which Matthew was convinced even the albino's heart had stopped beating. Out of nowhere, the silence was broken by a tinny, familiar guitar riff, a beat of drums that sounded vaguely reminiscent of a military march, a guttural rip of German across the silence, talking of fire and blood and sex. What the hell?

Oh! Gilbert's phone, _of course_.

He was solid enough to hold objects, so he managed, impersonal as he could, to pull the phone from the albino's pocket and answer the call, freezing at the name on the display.

"Gilbert? Gilbert, where are you? Ludwig's been calling me for the last five hours, convinced I have abducted you. Feliciano is convinced he saw you during the night, and Lukas too, during the storm, but you are no longer at your house and it worries us all that you do not stay put. Gilbert? Are you there?"

Gilbert blinked.

"Francis?" Matthew asked, voice rough and quiet, and he asked himself if Francis could even hear him. "Francis, help! Gilbert – he's – I don't know what's wrong – I need help, I can't do anything – help me, please!"

The Frenchman was instantly suspicious. "Who is this?"

"Francis!" Matthew snapped. "Gilbert needs help and there's no one here that _can_. I'm sure there's someone else who might be looking for him who might take advantage of him in this state. Ivan, perhaps, or maybe someone even worse."

"God damn it all, who_ are_ you? _Where_ are you?"

"Francis, don't. Don't ask questions you can't have answered. He's at the edge of the lake, on the edge nearest the town, by a large rock, do you know the one? I have no idea how long he's been out here, so please, hurry. We need help. Both of us. There are pieces missing from both of us now, and I don't know what might make Gilbert whole again."

Francis' frown was audible, cogs turning in his head. "It is impossible," he said then, his tone assuring himself. "For you to be who I believe you to be. But I will come, and I will bring Antonio and Ludwig and all those that might be able to help. I have not heard from Arthur." There was a question in there, and Matthew didn't have the answer.

"I think he was with Gilbert. I think they went to the Asylum."

"Oh, Lord _above_. Give me five minutes."

"Hurry."

* * *

The utter palaver Francis made of taking Gilbert home was so typical of the Frenchman that Matthew laugh in giddy relief, sick with worry, but thankful that Francis had kept his head on straight throughout it all.

Once Gilbert was safely inside and wrapped up in numerous blankets and excessive layers of clothing to the point he looked obese, if not morbidly so, Francis took a seat in a chair brought up from the kitchen, and sat vigilant, one eye on the now-sleeping Gilbert, the other on the room, as though he knew there was another occupant. A smile curled his lips as though quaintly amused.

"I think I know who you are." He was addressing the room at large, but Matthew could feel the words settling on his skin, meant for him. "But I know it is, mostly, impossible. Arthur would say otherwise, of course, because such is his way, but he too is missing. Not as missing as Gilbert, but missing all the same. He has answered his phone, though he has no idea where he is, so Alfred has gone to look for him, and has been gone for five hours already. I am thankful for you, and I have known for many years how you feel about him, and he about you. He will never say it, but he may have loved you in that peculiar way of his. He was devoted to Mina, of course, and he loved her the way a man ought to love his wife, but there was always a special place in his heart of hearts for you. He thought you were an adorable little thing, the day you first met, though there is but a year and five months between you. He caught you staring – I don't know if you remember – but he always kept one eye on you at all times from then on. He is an older brother to all those he cares for, age or not – he still thinks he might mother me into a stable, long-lasting, utterly monogamous relationship. Or is the word 'smother'?"

Francis laughed, and though he could not see it, Matthew smiled back. "I suppose what I wish to say is; thank you. For all that you have done, and for all that you continue to do. Though he might never know how much you loved him, and how you stand vigilant over him when those who call themselves friends – Antonio and I, Arthur and Ludwig and everyone in-between – failed to do so, it is glorious to know that you are there, and that you have remained faithful to him, even in death. You are a guardian angel, _Mathieu, _and I am so proud of you. I always have been, and I always will be."

The use of the French derivative of his name jarred him for a second, but Matthew recovered enough to smile and cross the room, putting his arms around his older cousin, hug him tight in the way he always had since he first grew taller than his elder. The reaction he received for such a move was untypical; Francis laughed, that too-familiar, obscenely-French laugh he always laughed, joyous and relieved, and even a little bit scared.

"Christ all-bloody-_mighty_, Fran, shut your trap! My head's killing me! Urgh, did I let you get me pissed again?"

"Gilbert!" the two blonds cried at the same time.

Gilbert's mouth opened as if to reply, but he caught himself, and coughed instead. It was a horrible little cough, coming from the very base of his lungs, raw and breathy and even a little sick.

"Good Lord, Gilbert!" Francis exclaimed, Matthew's arms slipping from around him as he rose to his feet and crossed the room, picking his way through the clothes and magazines and dismissed photographs that littered the floor, cursing as he stepped on what felt like a games console controller, perching on the edge of the bed next to where Gilbert was forcing himself to his elbows. "You – you had us all going there for a second!"

"What the hell happened to me?" If Gilbert had sounded rough the morning after he'd gone drinking with Arthur, it was nothing compared to how he sounded now, and Matthew and Francis both winced at the sound of his voice. His accent, normally on the tolerable end of German, was so thick that every syllable slurred into the next, and the sounds came from far enough in the back of his throat that they sounded like nails on a chalkboard, gravel and bolts and the Triumph's purr. He was grousing as he fought to free himself of Francis' mother-henning and the Frenchman took pity, helping him out of the excess layers. "I remember Feli in the café, and the storm, and Lukas was upset. I went to the Asylum and Arthur tried to kick me in the teeth when we broke in. But then, it's a blank." He looked past Francis, straight at Matthew as though the Ghost was visible to him and him alone, and maybe he was. "What happened?"

_I thought you were dead._

"I don't know," Francis sighed, a hand in Gilbert's rain-damp and sweaty hair, absently measuring it, because Francis cut everybody's hair and because it was Francis and because it had been happening for as long as any of them could remember, nobody questioned it. "All I know is I receive _multiple_, increasingly demanding calls from your cousin in which he convinces himself I've kidnapped you, and then I get a – an anonymous call telling me where you are, and you're practically dead. Really, do you remember nothing?"

"Not a damn thing." Another glance at Matthew, a heady little glance that made him blush, even though there was no blood to go to his cheeks, or, indeed, a reason to blush. "I'm kind of glad I don't. I mean, who knows what Arthur did to me, right?"

His laugh may have been physically weak, but it was emotionally strong, and Francis chuckled along with him.

"I will tell Ludwig that you're awake. He's most likely paced a hole in the kitchen floor by now. You have been out for some time. At least five hours."

"Take your time. He's such a freakin' wuss, I won't get a minute's peace when he comes up here."

Francis smiled indulgently and left the room, shutting it firmly.

The minute they were alone, Gilbert's arms were up and Matthew was on him, clutching desperately and sobbing a little.

"Shit, Gil, _shit_! I thought you were _dead_. I mean, really dead. You scared the hell out of me!"

"I'm sorry," and though he didn't sound it, Matthew knew he was. "I don't know what happened. I was going into the Asylum, and then I'm here. Did something happen in between? Francis said he got a phone call..."He left it hanging, a half-formed question in his eyes.

Matthew shook his head, brushing shaking hands over Gilbert's cheeks, smoothing his hair and compulsively repeating the movements. "I don't know. I couldn't get into the Asylum, but when I did, you were gone, and there was just this old carbide lamp in the foyer like it's been put there deliberately, and then I found you at the lake, and you were completely comatose. Couldn't get a word out of you, it's like you blanked the entire thing, and you just sat there, staring off at the Asylum in some kind of trance, and _shit_, Gil, I was so worried."

And then Gilbert kissed him, hard and desperate, and there might have been tears on his cheeks, but Matthew didn't notice, eyes wide and body seizing. His lips parted in a silent gasp – he had no lungs to breathe, and Gilbert stole any semblance of breath he may have had. It occurred to Matthew, vaguely, that he should do something, but _damn_ Gilbert was a good kisser.

"Mattie," Gilbert whispered, barely a millimetre away, hands framing his face, lips blue with the cold of Matthew's own. "Kiss me back. Please."

The logical part of Matthew's mind said, quite logically too, that Gilbert was traumatised by whatever he'd seen during the night; he wasn't thinking straight, he was going to regret it when he thought about it rationally later, but why should Matthew sacrifice everything that he might not comfort the man he loved with every fibre of his not-being?

But apparently, he'd taken too long to react, for Gilbert pulled away, blushing a little, and looking angry and embarrassed. "I'm sorry," and though he sounded it, there was a petulant note in his voice that told Matthew there was no way he really meant it.

"Gil – I…"

"No, no," Gilbert assuaged, waving a hand and hunching his shoulders. "I get it, I do. I mean, it's weird, right? Why would I – or anyone else – kiss a Ghost? It's not _normal_, is it? It's practically necrophilia, even if you're not _real_ the way I'm real. And, I mean, you were raped before you died, why would you want – urgh – why would you want _intimacy_?" He spat the word like it was a curse. He supposed it might be.

He kept his eyes down, but Matthew was spluttering something that sounded vaguely like a laugh. Eyes up, he found himself less than an inch away from Matthew, those lavender eyes of his all but glowing in the shadows of dead eye sockets, luminous against the purple bruises and the pale once-tan.

"Gil, I don't care," Matthew told him. "What happened to me, it's got nothing to do with you, and I know it. It doesn't matter to me because it's _you_, it's _always_ been you."

Time stopped for a split second, Gilbert's heart stuttering to a stop, skipping a beat, two, three, and then fell back into its rhythm, something inexplicable between them changed, a piece fitting into a puzzle, making sense of a picture he'd only been hazarding guesses at before. Nervous, almost, a tiny little bite at his lip an indicator, Matthew leant in, brushing a ghost of a kiss across Gilbert's lips, the barest breath, a facsimile of a dovetail, and then he backed away, eyes still open, still locked, a challenge, perhaps, or maybe a request for permission. Maybe the lines between the two had crossed, and maybe Gilbert was reading too much into it, but it didn't seem to matter, because Matthew was kissing him in earnest, hands in his hair and clinging on, and Gilbert was giving as good as he got, and it was okay. It was right.

When Ludwig eventually slammed his way into the room, Matthew was still sprawled unseemly across Gilbert's lap, invisible to the world, face buried in his neck, arms holding him tightly, and Gilbert held him subtly, hands on the Canadian's knees, looking as though they were just propped on the twists in his blankets, and the taller German looked none the wiser.

"Alfred's found Arthur," Ludwig announced, as though Gilbert cared, and okay, so maybe he did, a little. "He was a five hour's drive out of town, in a locked building, with no idea how he got there. I don't know what you two thought you were doing, but stop it before you get into trouble you can't worm your way out of, East. You're worrying everyone now. I've called a doctor to have a look at you; I didn't like how we found you." And then, softer, because Ludwig wasn't all bite and bark, "Are you alright now?"

"I'm okay," Gilbert smiled, and it was a soft little smile that wormed its way onto his face, buried itself in Matthew's hair. "I'm better than I have been for a long time. It's okay now," he assured his cousin, though he knew he was doing anything but. "I'm going to be just fine."

**++End Chapter++**

**Notes::**

**Gilbert's ringtone**, is Rammstein's _Wollt Ihr Das Bett in Flammen Sehen__?_ Just so you know.

Francis hasn't **forgotten Matthew**, he just didn't expect to hear him on the phone. Would you?

I read once, that the **German accent** sounded like someone using a sick bag on a 747.

Oh, Mattie, why you lie? And why you have **bad grammar**? Because it's plot important, that's why.

**Notes for ****chapter 6::**

Family is **very important to the Italians**. It's also really important to the Prussians.

I had to get **Tony** in somewhere. I drew Arthur in that hoodie, go to my dA page, I'm too lazy to put the link in my profile :)

A **stone** is a British imperial measurement of weight. In lbs, Arthur's roughly 126 and Gilbert's 168.

An **acetylene/carbide lamp** is an old mining lamp, used by mixing water with calcium carbide, which mixes with gas and ignites itself, or something, I don't get the FAQs.

If you remember the episode where America and Japan watch the horror film, that's why **Alfred's painted blue**.

My phone has **rung without a caller** before. Scary shit.

Does that clear up the **Asylum for you**_**, **_guys?

**I don't have much else to say about this chapter than; urgh fluff and also; this is the shortest chapter to date, excluding the prologue. Hope, you enjoyed, my lovelies, and I'll see you next chapter! ++Vince++**


	10. Timestamp: Born Like This :UK:

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **Gilbert might be comatose, but Arthur's lost.

**A/N: **Second, and last, timestamp until the deleted scenes at the end of the story. Pay attention guys. Four words for this one: **There Was a Silence. **'Nuff said. Notes at the end, APU. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Timestamp 2: Born Like This**

A single groan, low in the back of a throat made hoarse with screaming and thirst, smoke and death. A curse, bitter and for the most part redundant. A pair of lime-green eyes fluttering open, squinting into daylight and worn stone flagstones. A body, prone on the uneven, cold floor of a room, a bit battered and bruised, but dressed and in one piece, which was, all things considered, nice.

Arthur Kirkland lay in utter stillness for a good minute or so, soaking in the quiet, the reverent air surrounding him, birdsong whispering in the distance, a familiar sounding caw close-by, trees sending dappled shade across his skin. He had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten to be there, but he whole-heartedly blamed the bloody Frog for it.

_Francis is not to blame._

"Ah, shit," Arthur groaned, rolling onto his back and sending a withering glare up into the cobwebs on a beamed, arched ceiling. "Not this again, not now. Go _away_."

_You were in danger._

"I'm always in danger, now piss off," Arthur griped back, and hauled himself, unsteadily to his feet. "Where am I?"

_In a safe place._

Clearly, his 'aide' was going to be anything but, so he staggered over to the window, clutching at a throbbing temple. The scenery was pretty enough , he supposed, all rolling hills and old trees with their fruits, and a clear sky, the dew and last of the rain, but it was the large iron gates and the stones beyond that attracted his attention. He put a hand on the leaded glass, mouth falling open.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "Oh my bloody God. Where _am_ I?"

_This is where I was buried. You are some way away from your home, and for that I apologise. The landscape has changed much since I inhabited it._

Arthur rested his head on the glass, willed his pounding headache to abate, and groaned helplessly. "Oh great. I'm _lost_. How is this _safe_?"

_It is hallowed ground. The demon cannot hurt you here._

"And what about Gil?" he asked, glaring at the reflection on his eyes only an inch or so away. "Where's he?"

_I do not know._

"Bullshit," Arthur hissed, turning his head, the glass cool on his temple even as he glared over his shoulder at the empty space behind him. "I'm not a fool, Ghost, so do not play me for one. If you have strength enough to possess me and bring me out here, you have strength enough to take a physical form. I suggest you do so."

The apparition was slow to appear, and even slower to solidify, and even then, it maintained the consistency and appearance of a fine mist, of curling smoke and early morning fog. He appeared, for it was, despite the androgyny of the mist, male, as though descending, first one bare foot on the flagstones, then the other, lowering his weight with the fluidity of being supported. Slender and dressed in something vague and white, a tunic of some sort, torn across one shoulder, maybe, it was hard to tell how he'd died. With pale skin, and hair so pale as to look bleached, tinted with dark shadows, Arthur stared into his own face, sans scars and bruises.

"What the hell?" he demanded. "What. The. Hell."

"My name is Alexandrus," the Ghost told him, the accent torn between everywhere and nowhere, nothing he could have ever placed. "I do not think I need to tell you who I am to you, do I?"

Arthur shook his head. "No. No, you don't. I know. I've heard stories of it, but… I didn't believe it possible. Is it true, what they did to you?"

Alexandrus nodded, solemn and serious, and he crossed the nave of his church in several easy strides, standing at the exact height of his descendant. "Rome did not tolerate dissent amongst its captured kingdoms. To them, I was a thorn, and one that was easy to remove." The Ghost sighed. "Oh, Arthur, the things that I have seen."

"You said 'demon'," Arthur told him, frowning a little. Alexandrus frowned back, so Arthur expanded with, "When you told me why you brought me here, because this is hallowed ground, you said that the demon couldn't hurt me here. What demon?"

The frown on the Ghost's face made the lime of his eyes shine a little brighter, fire in the fog. "The Asylum in which I found you, there is a gateway there, I know not what, but it allows those that are dead to return to the living world. It appears, to me at least, that I am not the only one to have crossed through."

"I might be stood in a church talking to a martyr," Arthur began, "But there's no such thing as demons."

"You believe in angels, why not demons?" Alexandrus countered. He shook his head. "But it is of no matter; the demon that now resides in those hated grounds, it is not a monster of the Devil's devising. It has created itself, nurtured its hate and pain and formulated it into something tangible, something that it might use to infect those around it."

"That's why the Asylum was so bad," Arthur supposed. "Because it had gotten its hands on the patients, turned them into what it had become."

Alexandrus clapped his hands, a smile curling his lips. "Yes, exactly that. You have felt but a minute percentage of its power, Arthur, you know how disturbed the demon's mind has become over its years spent allowing its wounds to fester, drawing more and more into its coils until it was gross and swollen, unrecognisable."

"You… You say that as though you knew it."

"I did, once." But he said no more, so Arthur turned back to the window, looking out over the church graveyard.

"All this time, you were here, and I never thought to look." He rested his forearms on the sill, staring off into the distance. "How did you find me?" he asked after a moment. "When you pulled me from the Asylum, how did you know I was there?"

"I always know where you are, Arthur, even if I am not on this plain. I always know where every part of my bloodline is, just as you will know where all of your descendants are."

"Oh." A moment passed, and then Arthur said, "Be honest. What do you know about where Gil is?"

"Just as I came for you, another came for your Prussian friend – oh yes, he's Prussian, he's as Prussian as they come, born in East Germany or not. He has suffered great ordeals in his short time on this plain, and I fear they are not over."

"What do you mean?"

"The one that came for him was a recently deceased young boy, I believe you know him. He died a most violent death, to be sure, but he has kept his head well enough, though it will not last. I felt the anger and the pain in him even as I tore you free of the demon's grip, and it is the same anger that held you in that place."

"Matt's been infected by the demon?"

"I believe he _is_ the demon. At least in part."

"What? No," Arthur denied, wheeling round. "No, no he isn't. He can't be! He's losing his humanity, sure, but no more than any other Ghost!"

"He has done something dark and forbidding with his time in the Asylum," Alexandrus intoned, slow and calming, but Arthur was not to be calmed. "Something that has bound him to the demon there, and it is a bond that cannot be broken without the correct payment."

"A deal," was Arthur's response, face and voice both etched with disbelief. "You're telling me that Matt made a deal. What the hell, Alex, what the hell?"

"Hard though it is to accept, it is a conclusion to which you must steel yourself. The only solution that might be available to you might be the path you wish least to tread."

"Jesus Christ," and Arthur was fully aware that blaspheming in a church was probably not his best idea, but damn if he cared, "This is not happening to me. Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it will fall to you to make the decision as to what to do when the time comes."

"That's not fair. I'm a mediator in this," Arthur whined. "I'm not the one who went off calling the Ghosts. Sure, I told Gil how to do it, but I didn't expect him to care long enough… Oh, Christ, what's he unleashed?"

"He has unleashed hell unto your heads, for the demon is seeking payment it did not find in the boy's death."

"What'll happen to Matthew if the demon _doesn't_ get payment?"

"As I say, he will become the demon, as the patients in the Asylum did. The transition, I believe, has already begun. He has already possessed your Prussian friend once already, and the means to do it again are at his fingertips. You may have only days before it is complete."

"Great, thanks. I could have done with this three weeks ago."

Alexandrus looked vaguely apologetic. "I am sorry, Arthur, I am so sorry for you to bear this burden. We have all born burdens such as these throughout our many centuries on this plain." It was obvious there was something he wasn't saying, but Arthur really, honest-to-God, _didn't_ want to know. The Ghost sighed through his nose. "I can give you little advice in this."

"I don't want any," Arthur snapped, though he wanted all the advice he could get. "Shit," he cursed, kicking ineffectually at the wall. "_Shit_," he repeated, because his throat was seizing up, and his heart was pounding, and the throbbing in his temple was getting _worse_.

Alexandrus eyed him. "There is more that you might yet wish to hear, and more still that you won't, but have need to."

"Go on then," Arthur muttered, waving a hand idly, still staring off out of the window.

"It may be possible to save boy if there is payment given to the demon appropriate to what he asks for. I know not what the cause of his death was, nor why he made the deal, but I believe between you and the others whose company you keep and treasure, you know the truth of the matter."

Arthur let him talk, feeling something sharp prick behind his eyes and willed himself not to cry.

"The only advice I might provide you with is to discover what deal was brooked between the boy and the demon, find the cause of it, and calculate the payment before time is scant enough that you have no way of providing it. If you fail, you will have no choice but to destroy all that keeps the boy's soul here, and the Prussian will be the only one able to do it."

The living Briton turned, looking back at his ancestor with horror and fear, and everything in between. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked, a pleading note creeping in. "How am I meant to say anything to either of them? How can I look Gil in the face and say that Matt's going to kill him if we don't kill Matt first?"

Alexandrus smiled. "You are stronger than you believe yourself to be, Arthur. I have faith that you will find your path, no matter how it might try to hide from you, and you will do as you need in order to protect those you love. I cannot work the miracles you wish me to, but I am here" – he reached out as he spoke, and pressed a cold, insubstantial hand to Arthur's heart – "No matter what happens. I will always be with you, though I cannot remain in this plain, with you here."

"Can I get out of here?" Arthur asked. "Can I physically leave this church?"

"No," Alexandrus admitted. "I have sealed everything from the outside, to keep you safe here, until such time when you are ready to leave."

"And when will that be?"

"You will know when you hear the call of the eagle."

"What the hell does _that_ mean?"

But Alexandrus was already gone, leaving Arthur shouting at thin air. When he'd determined that, yes, he was alone, Alexandrus _had_ done a runner, the utter _coward_, he stomped off to the doors, and shook them. They were, as the Ghost had promised, sealed from the outside, and there was no way Arthur was a vandal enough to smash a century's old window. His head pounding, and heart racing, Arthur collapsed in a corner, buried his face in his knees and wept pathetically until there was nothing left in him, and then he just sat there, shaking and praying for the first time in over a decade to a God he didn't really believe in for something, _anything_ that might give him an idea of what to do.

And because clearly God was a fickle bastard, if He was tangible enough to be such a thing, Arthur's mobile rang, the tinny, too-familiar_ here we are buck-naked, yeah, but, where should we begin? When it's not the flesh we're after but the howling ghost within_ echoing across the floor, vibrations across his hip and elbow, jarring him into something a little more capable of coherent thought.

The display was welcome, and the voice less so, if just for its fear and sheer relief.

"_Artie? Where are you?_"

"I don't know," he replied. "I woke up in a church, and I've no idea how I got here. I'm in the middle of nowhere."

"_Can you get out_?"

"No, I tried that. I think it's locked from the outside." He wondered, vaguely, whether Alfred could tell he was lying. There was no use saying that the Ghost of his ancestor had appeared and told him so; Alfred would laugh, and freak out, and just generally get in the way and be a nuisance and not help Arthur at all.

"_Well, alright. Gilbert's missing as well, no one can get in touch with him. I mean, I would have called you earlier, but I've just come round, 'cause I've been thinking and I wanted to talk to you, but you weren't answering your door, and then it was unlocked, and you weren't in, so I thought I'd ask around, and apparently Gilbert's gone as well, and now everyone's panicking, and yeah. So, uh, stay there, yeah? I'll come and get you. Do you know where this Church is?"_

A smile had split Arthur's dry, chapped lips, and he sat there, grinning like the fool he was for a moment, before saying, "It's the Church of the Martyred Alexandrus, out in the cornfields."

"_Dude, really, I thought that place had been closed down_."

"It had. But I'm here all the same, so, uh, don't break the speed limits, it's not like I'm going anywhere, and I can wait a few more hours for you."

"_It'd take 5 hours in a car_," Alfred mused, and Arthur could hear him jingling keys, and slamming doors, and there was a rustle of fabric. "_But I put the Triumph in for maintenance a couple of days ago, so it shouldn't take me three to get to you. I'll see you in a bit, don't get doing something stupid._"

Still grinning like a fool, Arthur said, "Scout's honour," and hung up.

He imagined he could hear that engine's purr, feel the tank's vibrations under his fingertips and he realised, as he climbed to his shaking feet and returned to the window to look at the ravens littering the cemetery, that he'd just received the call of the eagle.

**++End Timestamp++**

**NOTES::**

Did any of you **see this coming? **Apollo doesn't count because I told her it was coming.

I tried to make it obvious, but in case I didn't, **Alexandrus is Britannia Angel**. He's also a Ghost, duh. It's in my head!canon that the reason Britannia Angel came about anyway was because England, a toddler at the time, was unable to stand tall against Rome's invasion and his subsequent punishments to the nation for its 'heathen' ways. stepped in to take over what Arthur couldn't. I tried to translate that into a human scenario, I don't know if it worked.

Incidentally, **Arthur's ringtone is David Gray's **_**Draw the Line**_. It's one of my favourite songs, and he's deffo in the top 5 of my favourite artists ever in the history of ever. Go and listen to it, seriously. I'm not sure that you'll agree with me that it's USUK, but whenever I hear it, I dunno, it just hits me. Off the album of the same name, this – along with _Full Steam Ahead_ with Annie Lennox, is the song that hits me the most. I don't know why, but it does, and I honest to God cried the first time I heard both songs.

OH ARTHUR WHAT WILL YOU DO NOW.

**Oh yes, before I forget. Apollo and Silence are aware of this, but how would you guys feel about a sequel (I swear to god the number of times I've written 'squeakquel', because of **_**Alvin**__**and**__**the**_** bloody **_**Chipmunks**_** grawr) for this fic? It's approaching the end now – there will probably be negligible Chapter Notes after this, so as the pace isn't interrupted, so this'll be my only real opportunity before the end, and I want to get your opinions now, and then see if they differ at the end. But ANYWAY. Sequel: USUK-centric, rather than PruCan, and set after the events of this fic, because let's face it, I've opened up the USUk story here. It would still have ghosts and ghouls in it, and maybe some other things as well. But yes, thoughts? Hope you enjoyed, my lovelies~! ++Vince++**


	11. Chapter 8: Bitter Taste

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **A decision is made and a step is taken.

**A/N: ** Uh yeah, you know, the usual. Notes at the end, APU. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter 8: Bitter Taste**

It was 24 hours before Arthur appeared; though Gilbert hadn't exactly been keeping in touch with the world outside of his bedroom, so he might have come back earlier and just hadn't thought to inform Gilbert of it, which was actually pretty likely because it wasn't like they were married. Or something. Still, when Gilbert asked where he'd been, Arthur had shrugged and mumbled something evasive about getting lost. It might have had something to do with Ludwig hovering at the door, but it might not have, Gilbert didn't much know, and cared less.

"Anyway," Arthur shrugged, kicking one of Gilbert's T-shirts out of the way with his toes, and prodding at the carpet before gingerly crossing the room to perch himself on the chair at the albino's beyond-cluttered desk. "No one's telling me jack, _as per_, so come on, you've got Francis practically praying the rosary because he's such an utter arse, and you've been driving Ludwig spare by the sounds of – oh, hello, Matthew, didn't see you there."

For his part, Gilbert had allowed their circle of friends to do the rounds and check on him, and then he'd stuffed his face with some of Feliciano's cooking, showered, and retreated back to bed, where he'd been since. Everyone had convinced themselves that this was a sign of illness, that there was something wrong with Gilbert that he wasn't saying, that maybe the trauma was worse than the doctor assured them it was, and the East German let them believe it, because it meant they left him alone. It meant that he got to be alone with Matthew, and that was all he cared about, because the door had opened between them now, an unspoken agreement reached, and Gilbert didn't want to lose a second with him, and part of him, as he'd threaded his fingers through cold and damp hair, lips numb even though he was unwilling to give Matthew up for anything, wondered what he would have been like in life. It had _always _been Gilbert apparently, so there was no way he'd have denied his advances, should he have made them the way he'd idly mused about, trapped between that point of waking and sleeping, torn apart by death and despair and roughly stitched back together because he couldn't let Ludwig see him wallowing in his own self-pity because what kind of a big brother did that make him?

The Canadian Ghost had been next to Gilbert at all appropriate times of course, and even when he was where Matthew couldn't be, he wasn't far away, so it wasn't like he wasn't with Gilbert now, as he made pleasant chitchat with Arthur. That the Brit could see him stunned him; if he could see the youngest, it meant that he could see how they lay entangled, neither sure any more where the other began.

"Do I even want to know?" Arthur asked, making a vague, indicating gesture at them with one hand, whilst he pressed the heel of the other to his temple.

The hand Gilbert had on Matthew's hip pulled the Ghost closer and Gilbert grinned; wide and too-happy. "If you want," he offered. "Didn't know you were into that kind of thing, but whatever floats your boat."

"Oh for God's–! Gil, _how old are you_? I swear, between you, Francis and that virus on Ludwig's emails, you're going to give me an aneurism."

"What, you can buy them?"

"Now you're just being stupid, and I've got enough of that with Alfred, so if you're going to be like that, I will treat you appropriately and not tell you the information I was given by a rather helpful Ghost." He frowned at them. "Is there any point giving my opinion on this?"

Gilbert snorted with laughter. "No, but you won't give me any of this supposed 'information' without first giving me a dressing-down, so go on." He waved a hand, just to further demonstrate his apathy.

The sigh Arthur gave him was pitying almost, morose certainly, and not without a touch of exasperation. "I'm happy for you, don't get me wrong, I _am_ happy for you, finding this little measure of whatever-it-is, really I am, but _Christ_, guys, _Jesus Christ_, you do know this is classified as a disorder, right? You do know that it won't end happily; we practically know where Kumajirou is now, there's only one place it can be, so once we've got it, we only need to work out how Matthew died and then he can Move On. I'm not talking about the what, where and when here, I'm talking the who and why. I'm happy that you're happy and all that, but this _will_ end badly, and Gil, you'll be left in the mud _again_, and I think it might kill you this time." He paused for a second. "Speaking of the who and the why, I think I have a lead on that."

"It was Ivan," Gilbert replied automatically, even as Matthew stiffened next to him, and Arthur's eyes narrowed infinitesimally, "I keep telling you that."

"No," Arthur disagreed just as automatically. "I don't believe he had anything to do with it."

"Then what was it?" Matthew asked, shrinking into Gilbert's side as though fearful of the answer, and who wouldn't be, Gilbert mused, tightening his grip and ignoring the way it was weird for his arms to actually sink into the boy's skin.

"When I woke up," Arthur began, blowing a sigh into his messy hair, "I was locked in the Church of the Martyred Alexandrus, and I had no idea how I got there. This Ghost appears after a while, and I've tried to get out, but I can't, and he tells me that he brought me there, because it was safe. It was _hallowed ground_. He goes on to tell me that the Asylum is like a gateway; something about its positioning or something, I don't know, it's open, whatever it is, and it's letting Otherworld creatures through."

It sounded a little like he was lying, but Gilbert didn't press. "Creatures," he said instead. "What _creatures_?"

"He told me that there are multiple plains of existence, and the gateway is open to all of them, and from what he told me, I've come to understand that one of the things that came through was a demon. That's what's in the Asylum, what tried to possess me."

"Demons don't exist, Artie," Gilbert sing-songed.

"This one _does_," Arthur snapped back. "And it's not a demon in the horns and red latex sense, either. It's a Ghost that's – I can't believe I'm saying this – gone to the 'dark side'. The anger and hate and pain I felt when it tried to possess me is only a fraction of what it feels. Love might be the strongest of all emotions, but damn if that thing's not more powerful than that. It's had _years_ to let itself grow in power and hate, and the Ghost told me that it has to be stopped."

"Well, okay," Matthew mumbled, picking at Gilbert's nails. "But how does this fit in with me?"

"I'm not sure," Arthur admitted, pressing his lips together in a sad little smile, shaking his head softly, and there was something he wasn't saying, Gilbert could see it, but there was no way he could get Arthur to tell him, not until the Englishman was ready to speak. The Briton's tenacity was rivalled only by his own. "But I told the Ghost why we were in the Asylum in the first place, that we were trying to find Matt's missing piece, and he said that whatever the link is, it's broken. He thinks that the demon's focusing on us because we've got the closest link to Matt, that Matt owes it something he hasn't given." He took a breath. "I think you might have made some kind of deal, Matthew."

"What?" Matthew squeaked, bolting upright and elbowing Gilbert in the ribs. As the older man lay there groaning, he said, hands shaking, "No, no I didn't! I'd remember, I didn't do anything like that, I promise! What would I make a deal for? How could I benefit?"

Arthur gave a pointed look first to him, and then to Gilbert. "The Ghost told me that between our circle of friends, we could work out the truth. Loathe though I am to do it, I think I might have to have a talk with Francis and then with Alfred."

Matthew's eyes were wet, but hard. "Arthur, I haven't done anything."

But it was clear Arthur's mind was made up, that he had steeled himself against Matthew's pleading long before he'd started speaking. "I'm sorry, Matt, I am, but I just don't believe it. Whatever you've done, you've endangered everybody, and we've got to stop the demon before it kills again."

And with that he stood and left the room, not meeting either of the other's eyes, slamming the door and yelling for the Frenchman as he did.

* * *

_Darkness. Stillness. Is it night time or death? Who's real?_

_Footsteps on carpet, creaking floorboards, down, down, down, and out._

_There was nothing to fear, nothing at all. They were okay, they were better than okay, they were perfect, both of them. The end had come and it was going to wrap them up tight, warm and soft, and the darkness was a blanket on their senses, hiding them from the world until all that remained was them, just their consciousness mingled together, one and all and none, not even their physical bodies surviving the transition into the darkness, and that was okay, because it was safe here, and it was peaceful._

_There was no one to stop them, nowhere they couldn't go. Freedom came at a price, but oh! It was a beautiful price they paid to be so enraptured._

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

Vis-à-vis **Ludwig's emails**; IT'S GOT DOGS IN IT.

OH MATTIE WHY.

**So short chapter is short, but I couldn't do what I'd originally planned to in this chapter without ruining the mood, so I'm sticking to the original plan. And as a couple of my faithfuls might remember; chapters 9 and 10 are the big ones, so uh, head's up! Hope you enjoyed my lovelies! ++Vince++**


	12. Chapter 9: Riot

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **The end has come and the players take their places.

**A/N: ** BIG CHAPTER. Notes at the end, APU. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter 9: Riot**

The Asylum, an old building built in the late 1800's in order to house up to 200 patients, but later expanded to house 1500 inmates in the cramped, invasive, isolated conditions so famed of the old asylums. Set against a backdrop of the horizon, towering over equally old oaks and pines that made up much of the wood bordering the eastern edge of St. Hetalia, the grounds spanned over 300 acres in total, but no one really paid much heed to what belonged to where any more.

Spiralling corridors and high, shattered windows turned it into a dark maze full of hidden traps. Arson and vandalism had torn the place asunder, not that the patients didn't do enough of that themselves before the central building was shut down in the late 1980's. Ivy grew thick over the red-brick institution, covered the outside and crept across the floors, walls and ceilings of the inside, painting the walls red with their leaves.

A large foyer with an elevator in the far corner, closed off by locked metal gates, a large mahogany desk against one wall, white stone pillars supporting a fanciful ceiling, all dark woods and light stones, inviting, if not for the paperwork scattered from the desk, patient records and bills and other such receipts of transit, for the blood dried into the dust of rubble, the broken and tattered general equipment; gurneys and typewriters, wheelchairs and empty pill bottles. From the foyer was a corridor that meandered off to the left, into complete darkness, and an unnecessarily extravagant staircase that lead up into darkness that was just as complete.

Some of the windows down that corridor were boarded up, and there were several doors on the other side– the isolation rooms, where patients would be beaten and tortured for not 'playing nice', and the doors slam and open and tear themselves off their worn hinges at the slightest provocation. The floor was broken, littered with debris, the plumbing torn up and the water they carried spilling across leaves and bricks and childlike drawings, dried and twisted and moulding. Blood was moulding across the walls, overlain with spray-painted names and dates, and there were warnings in there, but the pair of battered trainers that picked their way through the rubble, steps awkward and ungainly didn't notice these warnings, paid no need to the voices telling them to go back, to leave.

The Asylum was haunted by the Ghosts of the patients that died there, twisted and malformed by their own hatred and their own grief, and everybody knew it, even if they didn't admit to it. But it didn't matter, for the most part, because the Ghosts were happy with the arrangement; they were left alone, and those foolish enough to encroach on their territory were soon put to rights. They howled and they screamed, but the sounds fell on deaf ears, and they could not harm the one that wandered the wards, nor get anywhere close enough to frighten.

Beyond the corridor was the recreation room, a room of boarded windows and shattered activities. The pool table rested on two legs, the balls scattered and smashed throughout, thrown about in a fit. The television set stood tall and proud over the room, the screen shattered and the cables rotten and rusted. Paintings covered the walls, childlike in their simplicity, insane in their darkness. There was blood and rust, and all manner of graffiti and rubble. The light fitting in the centre of the room had a broken light bulb in it, and the drooping cable swung in a non-existent breeze. The light flickered as though being flicked on and off, on and off, on and off, and yet there was no power to the building, no electricity or water or gas.

The footsteps of those battered trainers echoed in the dead silence – and it _was_ a dead silence, for there was nothing living here anymore – crunched over balls of paper, over broken glass and plastic, kicked up dust and brought the smell of iron back into the air. The battered trainers didn't notice the smell, staggering as they were, awkward in their gait as they made for the double doors at the far end of the room.

The doors were broken, had to be slammed to be opened, the glass was missing and the hinges rusted, but there was strength in those battered trainers, strength that comes of a lifetime, and the doors gave way easily enough to allow entry into a long, tall-windowed corridor. The windows looked out onto an overgrown courtyard, a place where the best of the patients might get to spend ten minutes caring for flowers that might have been poisonous. Foxgloves grew over the sill of one shattered window, ivy through another. Weeds stood at the height of the windows. Moonlight cast shadows across the corridor, but there was no light in there, just the eternal darkness that had permeated the Asylum from the very bowels of its heart. It was to this heart that the battered trainers headed, through a pair of double doors in equal disrepair that swung open without prompt, as if aware of the trainers, aware of the gait and recognising it for what it was.

The maximum security ward was in worse disrepair than the rest of the building. Arsonists had burnt the walls till they were decorative nuances, rather than structural ones, and the floor sunk in the middle, flooding from the pipes peeling the tiles up at the corners and inviting mould to fester up its walls. Rooms spread out from a central day room, painted a faded, once-obscenely bright series of jarringly patterned colours, but there was little human damage done to the room, most explorers and fools too reluctant to set foot in the bowels of hell.

It was their home, it was always their home. This was where they could be together, without interruption or trepidation or fear of discovery. No one would come here to separate them, to tear them away from what they had made theirs.

"Gil! Stop!"

At the same time, another voice yelled, "Matt!"

Footsteps skidded behind where those battered trainers stood, shifting and staggering as though they couldn't support the body they housed. Jerky, puppeteer movements turned those battered trainers, pure fire burning across pale skin, eyes blazing red-hot.

A lanky teenager in baggy, old jeans and an ancient, creased leather bomber jacket took a step forwards, only to be caught at the elbow by a shorter man, dressed in a grey three-piece suit with spit-shined shoes and a pink shirt, of all things. There was horror on his face even as he pulled the teen back to step forwards himself.

The display had little effect on the battered trainers and the fire and the red-hot eyes. Indeed, the reaction was to spread pale, long-fingered hands soaked in grease and blood and mud, stagger a little more as though unable to support himself, throw his head back and _laugh_.

"Alfred, _no_!" The older man, his name was Arthur Kirkland, he was an interruption to their home, an impediment on their solitude. "Stop!"

Alfred F. Jones – he was the twin, if memory served, lost in the wilderness without his better half to take his hand and guide him – wheeled mid-step to glare back at Arthur. "Artie, that's my _brother_ there."

"No," Arthur disagreed just as angrily. "It's _not_ your brother, it's _not_ Matthew. It's the demon."

"Look at me!" the battered trainers and the fire roared then, staggering again as though the puppeteer's strings were slack. "I'm _**b**__u__**r**__ni__**n**__g_."

"The _hell_?" Arthur snapped back. "What the utter _hell_? Shut up and give up!"

"Give up what? This? This is who we are, Arthur, this is always who we were, why should I give up what I died for? _I am what you made me, __**A**__rT__**Hu**__R_."

Arthur screwed his eyes shut for a minute, horrified at what the battered trainers and the fire had become. A wet breath later and he caught at Alfred's arms, shoved him ineffectually towards the doors. Alfred, of course, dug his heels in.

"Alfred, _please_, just go! Get out of here!"

"I can't just _leave_," Alfred protested, but his voice was tight with fear, his eyes wide and panicking. "Artie, I can't _go_ and leave you here! It's too dangerous!"

"I've done this before!" Arthur spat, shoving again. Alfred took a step back to keep his balance and all the while the battered trainers and the fire watched on, wondering if the teenager could hear the lie in his would-be boyfriend's voice. "I don't need your help!"

Slowly, Arthur, deliberately holding one hand out from his side so as to keep Alfred behind him, turned to face the battered trainers and the fire and a twisted little smile curled his lips.

"Alright then," he acquiesced, nodding a little. "We'll do this the old way. Matt, let go of Gil and give up control, or I'll kill you."

To which the amalgamation of minds, the abomination before him laughed again, an uproarious laugh filled with hate and anger and pain, loud in the silence. Arthur's twisted little smile remained in place, his eyes steel and fire.

_**W**__i__**lL**__**Y**__O__**u**__?_

The abomination rocked forwards a step, and then another, until they were stood nose-to-nose, eyes locked and Arthur remained still, eyes hard, chin up. A grin much wider than Arthur's smile tore the abomination's face in two, teeth shining and eyes too bright. A hand jerked up, reached beyond Arthur, to Alfred.

The "_What, no_!" that fled Arthur's mouth was too slow, his turn too late, because with a scream and a billow of dust, Alfred disappeared through the wall, bodily yanked back by something Arthur couldn't see.

"_Alfred_!"

So Arthur did the most logical thing, the most base of reactions, and punched the abomination in the face.

It was only a temporary blindness, because, laughing all the way, the abomination danced back, face bruised and split cheek bleeding, and raised his hands. A feeling of utter hatred washed over Arthur, forced him to his knees, then his elbows, and he bite his lip against a whimper as the infected Ghosts, the patients torn and malformed by the demon's own hatred, manifested around him, because tangible, physical, _real_. They remained vaguely human in shape and size, but the features were wrong, their bodies contorted into hellish nightmares. It had been a long time since Arthur had seen a Ghost so twisted by its own remnants, and it took everything he had just to force himself to his feet.

And all the while, the abomination laughed.

"You are not so strong, Arthur," it told him, sing-song and laughter, young and twisted. "We are stronger than you. _We are all and __**y**__Ou A__**r**__E N__**on**__E_."

Arthur took a few shaky breaths, eyes shut against the abomination burning before him, against the Ghosts pressing in on him, and worked on closing off his mind from the psychic residue around him, working to keep himself from being infected more than he already was. The Ghosts milled, angry and screaming, but unable to touch him, the abomination's influence, he supposed, giving him all the chances he might need.

That done, he slapped a palm to the abomination's forehead and bellowed a short phrase in Latin over the din of the Ghosts. The abomination screamed and staggered away, leaving Arthur to the mercy of the Asylum's inmates. They grabbed at him, and he barely managed to keep his head long enough to duck and dive out of the way. His feet kicked out from beneath him, he tumbled to a sprawled heap, and tossed his head up to see Matthew's Ghost get torn free from Gilbert's body.

It was not a pleasant thing to watch, but it was necessary. What clung between them vaguely resembled Lovecraftian ichor, or perhaps just the pus of a wound, clinging to Gilbert's skin and to Matthew's vague corporeal presence. The Ghost was illuminated against the wall, lightning and fire and ice all at once, even as Gilbert's legs gave way, the puppeteer's strings cut loose, leaving in him a breathless, bleeding heap on the floor.

"Gil!" Arthur called, rolling out of the way of what looked to be a pipe about to swing down on his head, and climbing awkwardly to his feet. The back of his mind was filled with sirens, an endless scream across his head that wavered across his vision, disconnected the wires in his brain that allowed for motor functions, and he staggered over to the groaning East German.

"What the balls?" he asked helpfully, accepting the hand Arthur gave him to pull him to his feet. He put a hand to his cheek and winced. "Did you just _punch_ me?"

"Duck!" Arthur shouted instead, and yanked Gilbert out of the way of a Ghost's attack.

From there on out, it was hard to talk to each other, the Ghosts swamping them and occupying every bit of their attention even as Matthew, now burning with the fires of the demon, laughed above them, directing the patients into their attacks. Gilbert barely managed to catch a breather every few minutes, but he occasionally caught a glimpse of Arthur under a Ghost's arm, or between attacks, and had to give the Englishman his due, because he had clearly spent a lot of time fighting if he could fling a punch so hard as to knock a Ghost twice his size onto its back.

"We can't win!" Gilbert bellowed several minutes later, duck-and-rolling out of the way of a giant hand about to slap him.

Arthur nodded, jumping back out of the way of a punch. "I know!" he bellowed back. "One of us needs to get out of here!"

"You go!" Gilbert told him in a tone that brooked no arguments. "You get out of here and get help, I can deal with Matt!"

"No you can't!" Arthur's voice was steadily rising in pitch. "Gil, you don't realise how bad – Oh, _Christ, _Gil! Matt can possess you again! The demon's stronger than I am, you're too _close_, and – get out of my way! – and the exorcism spell doesn't last forever! It's piss poor in comparison! You _can't_ deal with him! You don't know how! I – I!"

"It's not like you can either! You don't' have any more of an idea that I do!"

And Matthew just continued to laugh.

_He knows more than he says. All is none and none is all and __**A**__r__**t**__hU__**r**__ i__**S **__**a**__ L__**iA**__r__._

"What?" Gilbert asked, wheeling away from Arthur to look up at the burning Ghost above him. "Matt, what does that _mean_?"

"It means," came a familiar French voice from the doorway, and Gilbert wheeled back to find his best friend stood there, looking aghast. "That Arthur's secret-keeping has convinced Mathieu that we are all in it together, that we are less than he is, less than the demon has led him to believe. I know my cousin well, and I know how much he hurts."

And Francis, elegant, arrogant Francis, strolled through the Ghosts to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the East German even as Gilbert continued to fight and looked up at his cousin. Matthew looked back, laughing still, but there was sadness in his eyes.

Francis had distracted Arthur for a split-second, but it was enough that a Ghost managed to get a lucky hit in. The blow sent Arthur flying and he hit one of the steel doors, but, unlike Alfred, who Gilbert knew was here but had not seen in the carnage, did not go through it. The Englishman collapsed in a crumpled heap and didn't move. Gilbert stared at the pile of grey cotton and messy hair and blood and dust, and turned back to Matthew, fists clenching.

"Matthew Charles Williams!" he snapped, because he was a big brother first and foremost, and nothing would ever change the tone of voice he'd picked up a lifetime ago. "You stop this _now_!"

The laughter faltered, but did not cease.

"Matt, I'm telling you now, this is it! You stop it or I swear to God, I'll kill you! First Alfred, now Arthur! Who else will you hurt? Who else will you kill?"

_You killed me._

"I did not!" Gilbert snapped back before realising what he'd said. "I killed you?" he faltered. "What?"

"We believe," Francis began, a soothing note on his tongue even as the Ghosts began to fade back into nothing. He exhaled through his nose. "We believe that the deal Mathieu made revolved around you; around his love for you. He is not so selfish as to take you for his own, but he is so selfish as to wish for it."

"But…" Gilbert faltered, frowning first at Francis and then up at Matthew, the laughter dead, and the fires simmering into nothing. "I… I don't understand. What would he have wished for?"

"One kiss," Francis told him, smiling sadly. "That was all he ever wanted from you, and we – Arthur and I – we think the deal was not so specific enough as to say when that kiss should come."

Gilbert put a hand to his mouth, eyes wide. "That's why we're here now, isn't it; Matt's had his end of the bargain. Oh God, Matt, why didn't you _say_ anything?"

_I had no time. There was never any time._

"Oh, God, Matt," Gilbert whispered, reaching up helplessly, as if to touch the Ghost, but Matthew recoiled away from him, corporeal fading to fog. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

From behind him, Arthur groaned and the sound broke the tension in the air like a knife; Matthew disappeared and the coolness that returned to the air was the coolness of a storm, not the chill of death, and Gilbert had never felt so alone in his life. Even though he had two people to which he was close less than five feet away from him, he felt like he was buried six-feet-under; he couldn't breathe, his head swam, and he wanted to be sick, wanted to curl up and die and stop existing.

Gilbert felt so weak he could barely move; Matthew had really taken it out of him this time, filled him with such a strong feeling of rage, such a strong feeling of love that Arthur's forced separation – the _exorcism_ – had felt like a more substantial blow than the first time.

He shook himself, rubbed blood from his cheek and his forehead, felt the sting of sweat and grime in them, wondered if they'd need stitches, and staggered over to Arthur whilst Francis remained where he was, looking up at where Matthew had been, lost in thoughts that made Gilbert sick to the stomach just by looking at the expression on the Frenchman's face; the pain and betrayal and sadness there, they were all too familiar, Gilbert had seen them before, had no wish to see them now. Arthur was still groaning, curled into a ball and in a worse shape than Gilbert; bruised and battered, his suit torn and hair full of blood and dust, sticking up like a rat's nest.

"Yo, Artie, you alright, man? You're bleeding."

"I'm _fine_." When Gilbert helped him to sit up, the Englishman winced and clutched at his side, shoving Gilbert in the face and away with his free hand, snapping, "It's just broken ribs." He looked up at Gilbert as the East German moved him to rest against the steel door he'd bit so he could feel at said broken ribs, and there was a look of such sorrow on his face it made Gilbert feel sick all over again. "We're going to have to kill Matt, Gil. We don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice. Are you going to be alright until we get back to town?"

"I'll be fine. Just, find Alfred. You knocked him through a wall and he hasn't surfaced."

"He's over here!" Francis' voice broke the still silence, and when they looked to him, he had crossed the room to stand at a hole in the wall, waving dust from his face, and they hauled themselves to their feet and crossed the room.

Alfred lay in a heap, bleeding and broken, glasses shattered and body bent, and it was clear to Gilbert, even before Arthur threw himself on the boy, tears pricking at too-old lime-green eyes, that he wasn't breathing and most of the blood seemed to be coming from his head.

"Shit! Alfred, wake up, come on, lad, wake up, don't do this to me, not now, come on, come on, _come on_!"

**++End Chapter++**


	13. Chapter 10: Over and Over

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **A game is played and a story ends.

**A/N: ** DEAR VINCE, STOP LISTENING TO THE TITANIC SOUNDTRACK IT MAKES YOU CRY. SINCERELY, YOUR NEGLECTED THREE BRAINCELLS. **WARNING. WARNING. WAR-FREAKING-NING.**

**A/N2:** This'll be my last update for a few days. I'm in hospital on Friday and I have no idea how I'm going to feel after I've come round from sedation. Watch this now. I say this, and you'll all have a new chapter alert first thing Saturday morning. I love you all that much. **ANYWAY ON WITH THE SHOW.** Notes at the end, APU. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter 10: Over and Over**

His cheek was sore, but it wasn't unmanageable; hell, his forehead and nose hurt more but he had bigger concerns and more important fish to fry, and there were plenty of them piling up on his plate. As he made to leave, he caught a nurse's arm. A shocked expression crossed her face, but it soon melted into motherly concern.

"Are you alright?" she asked, eyes going to the stitches etching lines down his forehead and across his cheek.

Gilbert gave her a crooked, swollen grin. "'M fine. Just curious – do you know if Arthur Kirkland's still lurking around? British guy in a suit, foul temper, Glasgow Smile."

"Oh, _him_," the nurse groaned. "He's made a right nuisance of himself. We stitched him up well enough, though setting his ribs was an utter bitch, he wouldn't sit still. But he was desperate to get to that young man – the trauma case you brought with you that caused the stir, Alfred, was it? – even before he got out of theatre. Refuses to leave, and ignores anyone that talks to him. Just sits there, holding his hand, mumbling under his breath." She gave him a gimlet stare as Gilbert fidgeted. "What happened?"

"Honey," Gilbert cooed in the way he might have said '_bitch, please_', and the nurse gave him an unimpressed little glare. "Do I look like the sort of guy who'd tell you what sort of things I was getting up to? No, so why ask the question? Where's Alfred's room anyway, I need to talk to Artie."

The nurse gave him directions, but not before tugging him down to look over him once more. She turned his face from side to side, lifted it up and felt at his throat before tugging it down and checking his hairline in the most neurotic way he'd ever seen a nurse act.

"Be careful," was her warning. "Arthur is being watched. I don't want to see you boys hurt any more than you are, but please, don't scare him. Whatever happened to you, it's terrified him, what happened to that poor Jones boy. He's got that cornered wild animal feel to him. So please, don't set him off, we need these rooms."

"Yeah, alright," Gilbert promised vaguely, leaving the room and her prying eyes. The minute he was out of ear shot, he was cursing her out.

For a moment, Gilbert stood outside of Alfred's room with his eyes closed, leant against the wall, listening to the steady _bleep, bleep, bleep, _of a heart monitor, the sound of shuddering, unaided breaths, the echo of a mechanised breathing apparatus, the rustle of fabric.

"Hey, kid, you okay?"

Gilbert flinched, shrinking into the wall as he whipped straight to look around. Stood against the opposite wall of the corridor was an older man, in his thirties at least, in a plain business suit, blue tie skewed and overcoat slung over his arm. There was a lanyard around his neck; the colour indicated a visitor, but the badge attached to it didn't. It was, Gilbert realised belatedly, the same copper that had been following Arthur around for the last three weeks.

"I don't know what you were doing," the cop announced suddenly, voice too loud in the sudden silence though it was barely above a whisper. "But between you, you have seriously injured Alfred Jones and I am receiving more and more evidence to convict you of Matthew Williams' murder too."

"Bite my ass," Gilbert spat back, voice a snake's hiss and just as venomous. "You can't touch us, not without cold, hard evidence. I've done this dance before, and Artie too. We know how these things work."

"What were you doing in the Asylum? It's illegal to go in there."

"And when has that ever stopped anyone? What about those kids who trespassed a week ago? What about them, did you arrest them? No. Unless you have written testimony from Matthew Williams and Alfred Jones that we did anything to either of them, I'm not listening to a word you say. And, what's this? You don't have either. Sort your life out."

And he slammed into the room, the door shaking in its setting and rattling a copy of the _Water Lily Pond_ hung on the same wall. Arthur stiffened in his seat, but otherwise he didn't react, allowing Gilbert to stand there breathing angrily and cracking his knuckles.

The Englishman looked like shit. He was already bruised along his face and down his jaw and throat, and there was still blood and dust in his hair – Gilbert supposed he looked much the same – and that wasn't counting the mess that had become of his suit. Once a high quality piece of tailoring, there were now buttons missing off shirt, waistcoat and jacket all, seams split and tears throughout the length of the jacket and trousers. His own blood stained the collar in what Gilbert supposed came from his collision with the steel door. His shoes were scuffed beyond repair, and it was an awkward observation that reflected the situation that it had taken Gilbert a good five years to realise Arthur had big feet for his height.

"It's all my fault," the Brit announced, sounding even more of a wreck than he looked. He was sat in one of the chairs by the side of Alfred's bed, knees spread to support the weight of his elbows as he buried his face in his hands. "I told Alfred about Matthew, about what had happened and what we were going to do, and I think it Opened him."

"Opened him?" Gilbert asked, crossing to the other chair, kicking it into the right place and sinking into it. He rested his own elbows on his own knees, leant in to look at Arthur seriously. "What does that mean, besides a really bad double entendre?"

"It _means_; I made Alfred see things he didn't want to see, things he wasn't ready to see. I Opened him to the Otherworld, Gil, brought him into the darkness that we inhabit."

"We aren't in the darkness," Gilbert mumbled back, thrown. "We're just… not on the lit path anymore."

Arthur snorted with laughter and coughed a little as he straightened; one of his hands reached out to touch Alfred's pale, too-thin arm, and the other went to his pale, shaved head, cupped his pale, too-clean cheek. Gilbert only really then took note of how bad Alfred's condition was. He was hooked up to life support standards; a heart-monitor and an IV drip, a respirator taped across his mouth and simulating breathing. And Alfred, bandaged and without his glasses, with all of his hair shaved off and enormous stitches curling across his head like a ragdoll, did not react to Arthur's touch. Next to the unconscious boy, they looked like they'd just fought their way out of hell, and they were demons to his angel.

"I'm sorry," Gilbert whispered then, because he had nothing better to say, because Arthur was right, they _had_ begun to inhabit the darkness, and they'd been dragging others into it with them.

"Shut up," Arthur snarled. "Just shut up. This is all your fault. You just couldn't leave well enough alone and just _had _to go _poking around _and drawing Matthew's attention to you and embroiling you in this... this... _mess_. None of this would have happened if you'd thought to keep your nose out of it and let me take care of things." He gestured at Alfred's comatose body. "_This _wouldn't have happened. Do you know what they've asked me to consider, Gil? Do you know what they want me to _do_?" He laughed bitterly. "Of course not, you don't have a clue. Just go home, Gilbert. I'll finish this myself."

"You must think I'm completely bloody stupid," Gilbert snarled back, "If you think I'm going to go anywhere and leave you in this state when your police buddy's out there out for your blood." He looked at Arthur, and then at Alfred. "He'll be okay, Artie, he'll be fine. Come on, it's Alfred."

Arthur glared at him, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. "They say they've done all they can for him," he said quietly, touching Alfred's arm gingerly and running the back of his fingers down it, careful not to jostle the IV drip and God-knows-what attached to his hand so he could wrap his fingers around that unresponsive, unmoving hand and squeeze it tight. "But they say that he might never wake up. There's too much trauma to his brain and spine. They're asking me to consider turning his life support off already because it's so unlikely he'll wake up, and if he does, he'll be so debilitated… He won't be the same." Another bark of bitter laughter. "I'm named as his next of kin, did you know that? After Matthew, I'm the one who gets to decide what happens to him if something puts him in this position. Before his parents, before any of his other relatives. His twin and then me. And look what's happened, Gilbert. Look what this has done to him. To me. To all of us. He trusted me to look after him, Gilbert. Trusted me to keep him safe. And it's because of what I did that he's here."

"And without context," Gilbert told him, voice tight. "That's going to get you arrested."

"Does it matter?" Arthur asked, hollow and empty and not once taking his eyes from Alfred, from the display that continued to _bleep, bleep, bleep_ at him at that same, unhurried pace. "Does any of it matter?"

"Jesus, Arthur!" Gilbert exclaimed, leaping to his feet, and Arthur didn't move. "Matthew's out there right now, and he's hurting, Artie, just as much as you or me or Alfred or Francis, and we're the only ones who know, we're the only ones who can do anything about it."

Arthur turned lack-lustre lime eyes to him, and Gilbert actually flinched at the age he saw there, the horror reflected back at him. Gilbert clenched his fists, set his jaw, ready to fight it out, stitches and broken ribs or not.

"There's no point," Arthur murmured, finally letting go of Alfred's hand to lean back in his chair and sigh. "We're going to have to kill him, and there's no other choice. I've done everything I can to keep Alfred safe from the blow it'll deal, but there's nothing we can do to change the fact we're going to have to find that bear and burn it."

"What?" Gilbert breathed.

Arthur nodded, sniffing and swallowing and coughing some more before sniffing again. "It's the only way we're going to get him to a low enough form that we can deal the killing blow. The easiest way would be to burn his bones, but there's no way we'd get away with that. It's not always guaranteed to work either." He sighed heavily. "I wish there was a way we could do this without making it worse, but I messed up."

"Arthur, stop blaming yourself." But the words were hesitant, confused. There was obviously something Arthur hadn't said somewhere along the way, if Matthew's accusation in the Asylum was anything to go by, but damn if Gilbert knew what that was. "Whatever it was, it can't have been as bad as all that."

"I couldn't say it with Matthew there," Arthur replied, and in that split second, he looked so tired Gilbert honestly thought he might collapse. How long had they been on their feet now? Less than twenty-four hours certainly, but so much had happened to them. To Gilbert at least, it felt as though he hadn't slept since Matthew died, and in a way, he hadn't. "But when I was trapped in the Church, the Ghost that came to me, it wasn't just any Ghost. It was _Alexandrus'_ Ghost. My ancestor, Gilbert, do you realise what that means? My own blood had come through and that is _powerful_ magic. He told me that we had only a short window of time before Matthew would be completely overtaken by the demon, and yes, Gilbert, I knew about that, I knew what the demon would do to him. Alexandrus told me about the payment – and I think, now, that that payment is going to come in the form of our deaths. I don't know how many it wants, but Matthew's death wasn't enough, because this coma? It's not natural, not like this. This is the demon, I can feel in Alfred's skin, see it pulling him deeper and deeper and there's no way he's getting out whilst it's still here."

"Oh my God, Artie, why didn't you tell me?"

"And when would I have had the time?" Arthur snapped back, his own voice rising in volume. "I mean, really, Gilbert, by the time I'd finished explaining to Francis and Alfred what had happened, you'd already gone off to play happy families with Matt in the Asylum and thank _God_ for Opening Alfred more than he was because otherwise he wouldn't have felt the shift and gone to look!" He took a steadying breath, a hand on his forehead, and then said, "We have to burn that bear. It's one of two things keeping Matthew here. That bear, and you."

"You're not burning me," Gilbert protested. "That's stupid."

"No," Arthur replied exasperatedly. "I'm not talking about burning you. I can close you off. It would be permanent, and it might get hairy for a while, because it's shutting part of your brain off from the rest of your mind, so it's not the most accurate of practices, and it's highly unrecommended, but _damn it_, Gilbert, we're out of options."

"There's always another option!"

"Not this time, there isn't!"

A knock at the door startled them enough that they both turned. It opened and a tall man, not that much older than they were stepped halfway and with it all of the blood in Gilbert's body ran cold. His hair was messy and there was a fashionable white scarf slung loosely around his neck. He was not a big man by conventional means, but he towered a good head over Gilbert and Arthur both, standing at least six feet high with the shoulders of a bull. His name, as he smiled with all the warmth of the dead, and his violet eyes took in the angry poses, the glares, the body in the bed, was Ivan Braginski.

"I heard that your puppy was hurt," he said, too cool and too light, gesturing at Alfred. "So I thought I would come and say I hope he gets well soon."

The Russian accent sent a shiver down Gilbert's spine, drained the anger from him and replaced it with a gut-churning fear he hadn't felt for a _long_ time. From the set of Arthur's jaw, he wasn't the only one.

"What do you want, Ivan?" Arthur asked. "You hate Alfred and by extension, me. So cough it up."

"I do not understand," Ivan admitted silkily, stepping firmly into the room, and shutting the door behind him and with it the last of the warmth. "I only came to wish you well after the tragic accident."

The thought came unbidden, and Gilbert had to bite down on every nerve and every urge he had that demanded he punch the lights out from that damn Commie's eyes and end him, because he _knew_. He knew what had happened, he had to have, Ivan knew everything.

Arthur, it appeared, had none of that restraint. "Get out of here, Ivan," he snapped. "Your very presence insults me." And he turned away, threw himself back into the chair and tried to clutch at his ribs without anyone noticing. He failed, but Gilbert had been raised to be more polite than to mention it. Well, no, he had more sense than to mention it because though Arthur seemed to have no intention to do a Wicker Man and burn him, Gilbert wasn't stupid enough to think that he couldn't be pissed off enough to change his mind.

"Oh," Ivan hummed then. "But I had something to give you." He turned his innocent smile to Gilbert. "Maybe Comrade Beilschmidt should come get it, if you are injured, Comrade Kirkland."

"Call me that again," the aforementioned 'comrades' told him at the same time, "And I'll kill you."

Ivan, the sociopath that he was, just smiled. "Come along, Comrade Beilschmidt, we shouldn't leave Kumajirou waiting to be returned to his owner, should we?"

What.

No way.

"That's not possible," Arthur whispered, but he didn't turn.

Gilbert gaped. "You had it, all this time?" It pretty much confirmed what Gilbert had been saying all along. "Then you _did_ kill him! It _was_ you!"

"I did no such thing," Ivan dismissed, and a shadow crossed his face not unlike the one Gilbert had seen that night, but Gilbert wouldn't break under it the way he had, wouldn't trip out and run off into the darkest corner of the Asylum to be grabbed by a bloodied and terrified Arthur appearing like a demon in a nightmare to take him to the foyer to be carted off for a stomach pump and observation.

Gilbert opened his mouth to comment, but Arthur beat him to it.

"It's been a week," he said, and it was such a non-sequitur both Gilbert and Ivan made noises of confusion. "I told Alfred to think for a week, and then come back and talk to me, and he'd done his thinking and he was going to come and talk to me." He turned an angry, hurt little glare up to where Gilbert hovered, looking at Arthur as if he were a wild animal. "Go with him, Gilbert. Get the bear and then go home and pretend this didn't happen. None of it. I'll finish things off."

Licking his lips and wincing at how sore they felt, how chapped and cold and bloodied, Gilbert watched Arthur for a moment, but the Englishman seemed to have shut down, and wouldn't be moving at all if it wasn't for the too-steady and too-even breaths lifting his chest. His eyes were shut, and he had his hands around Alfred's again, and there was another tear rolling its way down his cheek, and Gilbert took a deep breath, looked at Ivan and said, "Come on then."

He felt the irrational urge, as he got to the door, to say 'goodbye' to Arthur as though it would be the last time he saw him, but refrained, instead turning to the police officer outside the door and saying, "You go anywhere near him and he'll kill you. I'm not even joking. He's hit it. Rock bottom. He's gone beyond that. If you get a word out of him, it'll be the last one you hear. So just leave it."

And then he followed Ivan out of the hospital and tried hard not to let fear show on his face.

* * *

"So, Comrade," Ivan began idly, slowing his stride to match Gilbert's. "What part do you have to play in all this?"

"Don't call me that," Gilbert snapped. "What part do _you_ have to play?"

"I asked you first."

"And you're a complete bastard so you should answer first."

To which Ivan chuckled and Gilbert wanted to kill him. "It is all very well," Ivan hummed idly, turning off the main street and down a side alley. "That you wish me dead. Because, in truth, I wish nothing more for you as well. We are even."

"Well, cheers." He kicked at a stone on the ground for a minute before saying, "Why were you in the hospital really?"

Ivan shrugged idly, hands in his pockets as he turned to look over his shoulder at Gilbert. "Katya needed help for her appointment. She is terribly ill from Matthew's death. The doctors are worried she might have to be put under observation."

"Oh." Well, there wasn't a lot he could say to that was there, really? Still, it was a terrible thought; what else had been happening to the people he knew that he hadn't noticed, too occupied with thoughts of Matthew and Arthur and that polar bear. What if something had happened to Peter? To Ludwig or Lukas or Feliciano? What about Francis? He'd taken them to the hospital and then disappeared. What if something had happened to him? He'd said that he already had an idea about Matthew's Ghost, he'd been the one to pick up the call Francis had made to Gilbert's phone, he'd told him where to find him, he'd acknowledged his older cousin when Francis had spoken to him in Gilbert's bedroom.

But what would happen to him now that he knew? If knowing about the Ghosts was enough for Alfred to be made comatose, what would happen to Francis? If not now, right this second, then later, when there was nothing left but the shells of the men he'd once known?

"What are you thinking about Comrade?"

"Don't call me that," Gilbert snapped, frustrated beyond measure, but not stupid enough to pick a fight.

The reaction he received was calm, contemplative. Ivan stopped and turned, looked Gilbert over, and smiled that cruel little smile of his. "What should I call you then?" A snap of his fingers, a little noise of triumph in the back of his throat. "Oh, I know! I shall call you _necrophile_."

Honest to God, Gilbert's heart stopped for the briefest second. Just… stopped. And then it was hammering in his chest, and he felt like he wanted to be sick, and _sure_, Ivan knew, Ivan knew everything, but how could he know something so personal and so private, something Gilbert was sure Arthur had only vaguely pieced together, because sure, Arthur wasn't thick, but he didn't have all the facts, and Ivan had all of them, and Gilbert hadn't even admitted it to _himself_ yet, even though he knew it was true, and there was no grounds for the accusation at all, and _oh God_.

Hands on his knees, Gilbert doubled over and tried hard not to be sick. Ivan, seemingly oblivious to internal torment, put a hand on Gilbert's hair and stroked in what would have been a calming motion, if not for the pressure and the nails digging into his scalp.

"Come along, necrophile," Ivan hummed pleasantly as Gilbert eventually wrenched himself free and straightened. "You don't want to leave your pretty little boyfriend without his memories when it is so close in front of you, do you?"

"I hate you," Gilbert snarled under his breath as they started walking again. "I hope you shoot your face off."

Ivan's house was big, and empty, and Gilbert had only ever been here once, when he was made to work with Ekaterina on a stupid-ass Academy project that had had something to do with the World Wars which was cool and all, but listening to her cry wasn't as awesome, and put him in a low mood for days. It was large, bland rooms and cold, stark decorations, and Gilbert, used to the clutter of his own home, not to mention the artistic clutter of Francis' place and the homely clutter in Arthur's that was defiantly English though of an American origin, since it seemed all mess in Arthur's cottage belonged to that bloody American. Who was currently lying unconscious in a coma that he'd never wake up from, oh God.

Gilbert tried not to listen to his footsteps rattling on the tiles and hardwood flooring, and followed Ivan through the hallway and into the kitchen.

And there it was, sat as nonchalant as something entirely artificial could be, looking awkward and out of place on the table, sat Matthew's toy polar bear. It looked no worse for wear, a little dirty, perhaps, and well-worn, but not _old_, and it still had both eyes, though one was a little loose, so it looked kind of confused, and how could a bear look confused anyway?

Ivan crossed to the other side of the table as Gilbert stood transfixed, and there was a curious little look on childlike features, a smug little smile as realisation struck, and a shiver ran down Gilbert's spine the likes of which he'd never felt.

"So," Gilbert started with a swallow, taking measured strides to the table and planting his hands on it. "What do I have to do?"

The glass doors at the far end of the kitchen slid open, and a pretty little blonde thing stepped in, looking for all the world like one of the little Lolita-Gothic dolls Francis had collected once upon a time because he was weird like that, and the look she levelled at the albino was a filthy one, full of disgust and rage and hatred all.

"You," she said, and her accent was just as thick as her brother's. "What do you want?"

"Natty," Ivan cooed, placating, but there was a tinge of fear to his face Gilbert silently revelled in when he dared to glance away. "We are going to play a game. Would you like to join us?"

She eyed Gilbert suspiciously, turned her glare to her brother and the way it turned soft and simpering was sickening to the very pit of Gilbert's stomach, in a place he didn't know he possessed.

"No," she huffed eventually. "His stench clogs the air. I will play later, after he has left."

And with that, Natalya was gone, flouncing out of the room to slam a door and blare music at full volume, the guitars and drums and pianos too lively to be a counterpoint to the moment Gilbert now found himself in.

"What kind of game?" he asked, looking over to where Ivan was sighing and shaking his head.

"She is so demanding of attention," he grumbled, drawing out a chair and sitting. He gestured for Gilbert to do the same as he said, "She doesn't need to behave so to get it." He sighed pleasantly. "Oh well, enough about Natty. For us, necrophile, I have a fun game to play."

"Stop calling me that," Gilbert replied, and he wasn't stupid. There was only one 'fun game' in Ivan's view, and it was a game he'd already played. But he sat down, because he had to get that bear, had no choice but to play the bloody game.

"We're going to play Russian Roulette."

"Of course we are."

Ivan smiled at him, a sweet, child's smile, and Gilbert had never been able to look Lukas in the eye when he smiled, because it reminded him of that smile across from him, and from seemingly nowhere, Ivan placed the same revolver he'd used to kill Alise on the table, and span it idly. Gilbert watched, eyes wide, and jaw gritted, but silent and careful as Ivan picked it up, opened the cylinder and emptied all six rounds, chambering one, closing the cylinder and spinning it. He set it back on the table and placed the five remaining rounds on the table.

"Would you like me to go first?" he asked, hands on the table and still smiling.

"I hate you."

"So you say, necrophile. But you are scared, too, and that is okay. I will go first and show you what to do, because you were very ill last time you played and I'm not sure you remember."

Oh, Gilbert remembered, but he watched the way Ivan placed the revolver's barrel to his temple, pulled the hammer back and pulled the trigger without any hesitation, and Gilbert's heart was pounding, it was in his throat and it was crushing his airwaves and he was going to hurl but he couldn't find his stomach, it had dropped completely out of him and he was cold and empty and utterly alone.

"Your turn, necrophile."

"Stop calling me that." But he picked the gun up anyway, felt its weight as he pulled the hammer back, contemplated the merits of just shooting _Ivan_ instead, but ultimately, that was a bad idea. He might miss and then Ivan would kill him for real and it wasn't worth the aggravation of trying to explain how he could miss his own head if it wasn't the chambered round.

So he put the gun to his head, and listened to the click that almost shattered his eardrum when he pulled the trigger.

As he set the gun, hand shaking, down, Ivan continued to smile and said, "See, it is not so hard."

Gilbert just breathed, short gasping breaths that barely got any air into his lungs, and he could feel his eyes burning. Sniffing a little, pressing the back of his hand to his nose, he took another breath and threw himself back in his seat.

He swallowed as Ivan repeated the motion; pick gun up, pull hammer back, put gun to head, pull trigger, _click_, put gun down. All in one simple movement. To be so completely unafraid of death was almost commendable, until one remembered that Ivan was a complete and total lunatic.

"There is nothing to fear, necrophile," Ivan told him. "You must play the game in order to win, yes? But you have another motive for playing. You still believe that you can save your little boyfriend, don't you? You still believe there is humanity left in him, despite all that he has done to you and your puppy and its owner. You have been told that there is no way to save him, and yet still you persist, insist on trying to save him with misplaced heroism as arrogant as your puppy's. How is it that you can love a Ghost so completely after only three weeks of knowing of his very existence?"

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up_," Gilbert snapped, putting his hands to his ears and screwing his eyes shut. It did nothing to shut out Ivan's pleased little giggle, but it was enough that Gilbert could, for a moment, at least, disassociate himself from the man across from him, from the firearm between them, from the very situation.

The words came unbidden, wrong but right, whispering across his mind, and there was a decided voice to it that had been in his head for hours, days, weeks.

_Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take. If I should die before I wake…_

Sufficiently calm, he opened his eyes and said, calm as Ivan, "I don't love him, Ivan. I have no idea what game you think you're playing, but it's not going to work on me, no way."

"But," Ivan protested gently, as though coaxing a child, head to one side. "You have already begun to play the game, yes? You have already admitted your sins. I hear no denial in your voice."

Gilbert's teeth ground together as he fought the urge to lunge across the table and throttle the Russian with his scarf. He wanted to scream and cry and curse till the sun set, but there was no point in doing it, because Ivan wouldn't take the least bit of notice. There were three chambers left to fire, and one of them had a round in it. The threat of death was very, very real now. This might be the last shot Gilbert would ever fire, the last use of his muscles, the last cognitive thought process, messed up though it might be.

_Arthur_, he thought as he pulled the gun towards him, pulled the hammer and held it to his head. _I swear to dear God, if I die, I'm haunting your ass to kingdom come._

_Click_.

Never before had he felt such relief, nor had he ever felt such bone-shaking fear. His hand was shaking so badly he nearly pulled the trigger again as he tried to set it down. It wouldn't have fired, not without the hammer, but the threat was there. Ivan prised his fingers away from the butt of the gun and pushed it away so he could take it himself.

Again; pick gun up, pull hammer back, put gun to head, pull trigger, _click_, put gun down.

"I find closing my eyes helps."

Gilbert levelled a glare at the Russian man, but the effect was lost in the tears now on his cheeks, the shake of his hands at they came up to hold his temples. The stitches throbbed angrily. "Who cares what you think?" he replied, voice strained over the anger, stretched thin enough to break.

"You are scared," Ivan surmised. "I do not blame you. I was scared the first times I played."

"I hate you," Gilbert snarled, shutting his eyes and holding his head in his fingertips, tears falling on the table and over the sound of Natalya's music and Ivan's quiet breaths, he could hear them _plit, plit, plit_, feel the thrum of blood in his veins, the stutter of his heart in his chest as he fought to calm himself. Frightened, yes, terrified even, but he would not give Ivan the satisfaction of admitting it.

_Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take. If I should die before I wake…_

Ten seconds, fifteen, thirty, and then he raised his head, eyes calm and gaze steady.

"Did Matthew ever play?" he asked, reaching for the revolver between them.

"Matthew? Ah, your little dead friend. No, no he did not. I offered, once, but he was busy that day. I believe your puppy and his owner were having an event of sorts, for their little family unit. But it doesn't matter, there were other opportunities to play."

"You did kill him then."

"Why must you accuse me of things I didn't do, Gilbert?" Ivan asked, and the way he shifted in his seat cast a dark, ugly shadow across his face. He laughed a cold little laugh. "We have discussed this before. This is how we came to be sat here." He watched as Gilbert lifted the revolver to his temple, and smiled beatifically, cheek held in one wide palm. "I could not have killed him," he explained with an idle shrug. "The cause of death was asphyxiation and a stab wound to the ribs. If we had played Roulette, he would have been dead before then."

Gilbert frowned back, the barrel cold against his temple as his hand trembled. "You say that as if you would have won."

"I would have," Ivan assured him, though it was anything but. "Just as I always win. It is your go, necrophile. Pull the trigger and I will win again."

Said necrophile's hand flexed involuntarily. This was the last shot, it was always the last shot. Statistically, it was only a one in six chance to be the last shot, but it was _always_ the last shot, and it was the most inglorious way to go, and surely Ivan would be arrested for this. There was no way he could get away with Gilbert's brains all over the kitchen table. It would acquit Arthur and Gilbert both of Alise's death, and provide evidence for Ivan's guilt, and even, given the current location of one of Matthew's possessions, put him in the frame for Matthew's murder.

_Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take. If I should die before I wake…_

And maybe, maybe, it would be enough to pay the demon in Matthew's head, maybe it would be enough to save Alfred and Arthur and Matthew and Francis. What would Ludwig think? Would Feliciano do as he promised and get Lukas somewhere safe? Would Lukas hate him for it? It was an inglorious death, and it was classed as suicide, and Gilbert might not have believed in God, and he certainly didn't believe in heaven, but this would deny him accent to it, throw him into the very bowels of hell.

But really, did it matter? Did any of it matter?

And then he pulled the trigger.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

So yeah. **Alfred's still alive. Just. **That doesn't mean he's safe. I accidentally gave something away I didn't mean to to a certain somebody who knows who they are, so uh, pretend you didn't hear (read) that, okay? Even if you think it's a good idea, you didn't hear it! *warning glare* Nah, I totally don't care either way.

**Gil**, you're such a prat.

The **Water Lily Pond **is one of my favourite paintings; it's a Monet.

If you're wondering, the **God-knows-what attached to Alfred's hand** is a pulse oximeter; I have no idea if having one on means you don't have the heart-sticky-things attached to your chest because both measure your pulse so having both is kind of redundant, but oh well.

Arthur, have you **been watching **_**Supernatural**_**? **

When I say that **Ivan knows everything**, I am, of course, referring to the fact that Russia STILL has a stupidly 'big' secret police and that isn't counting the Soviet Russia KGB and Soviet East German Stasi. WHO WERE EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME.

**Arthur's house** is totally a little chocolate box cottage, in case that wasn't totally obvious.

I believe the type of revolver I used in my mind was a **Nagant M1895**.

Also, **Apollo pointed out that a good FST song** for this fic was Lena Meyer-Landrut's Eurovision 2011 song, _Taken By A Stranger_. If you have any other fitting songs, gimme a shout, and I'll compile them into an FST at the end, because I'm that derpy *goes to corner of shame*

**AM I HORRIBLE ENOUGH FOR YOU YET? ++Vince++**


	14. Chapter 11: Goin' Down

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **Steps are taken and goodbyes are said.

**A/N: ** Thank you all for being so lovely! Notes at the end, like always. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter 11: Goin' Down**

_Click._

"How long have I been awake?"

"_Less than twenty-four hours_."

"What's my record?"

"_Fifty-seven and a half. I found you on a park bench. You were still drunk, so if you hadn't keeled over, you might have gone on for a bit longer_."

"Oh, right. It was a total bluff, by the way."

"_Yes, I figured that. Do I want to know how?_"

"Palmed the round. Sneaky bastard."

"_But you got the bear, right_?"

Gilbert nodded, remembered that Arthur was currently sulking at home after being kicked out of the hospital, and therefore couldn't see him, so said, "Yeah," and glared at the thing currently swinging alongside him as he walked. "Why he had to bluff I don't know. Could have just given me it."

"_You're remarkably calm_," Arthur noted, and there was the sound of wood on tile. "_Considering you almost blew your brains out ten minutes ago, what few of them there are_." He made a vague, disapproving noise. "_For God's sake, Salem!_" The sound of him patting his shoulder. "_Up_." For a moment, anything Arthur might have wanted to say was drowned out by the sound of purring.

"That cat's a menace. Yeah, well, I don't have time to have a breakdown now, do I?" Gilbert neglected to mention that he'd had a breakdown not ten minutes previously, convinced himself he was dead anyway, and made his peace with the world. Since Matthew's impromptu prayers, he'd heard nothing from the Ghost. "Uh, Artie?" He asked then, stopping dead.

"_What is it now_?"

"Well you know how you were saying we didn't have much time… Have you looked out of your window in the last thirty seconds?"

"_I'm moving my furniture_," Arthur snapped, and then spoke over Gilbert's admonishment for doing something so stupid when he had broken ribs. "_Why would I be looking out of my window_?"

"Because the Asylum's looking a little, uh, funny."

"_Define funny_."

"It's burning. With black fire."

"_You what_?"

"Black fire. And red smoke. And what looks like that shit that held Matt to me in the Asylum is all over it, like it's oozing. You, uh, you might want to take a look."

The sound of the door opening was heard, and then Arthur promptly cursed himself hoarse. "_Get your arse over here. Now. Run_." And then, because he was an English bastard with no manners, he hung up.

Like hell was Gilbert running anywhere, for anyone. So okay, that ooze and fire was looking really, no _really_ creepy, and slightly worrying, but there was no way it was bad as all that, right? Right. So there was going to be no running.

Jogging, sure.

But no running.

As it turned out, Arthur's idea of 'moving furniture' had been to shove his kitchen table into the middle of the space designated for it, rather than leaving it against the wall. He looked a little green about the edges, but Gilbert couldn't tell if it was sickness or psychic residue. It might have been the fact that though his hair was still filthy, it had that vaguely rinsed-out look to it that just made him appear more drained than normal. Still, it couldn't have been as if Gilbert looked much better.

"'Ere," Arthur said, handing Gilbert what might have been water, but smelt far too much like vodka. "You'll need it."

Gilbert downed it, hissed at the burn in the back of his throat, and said, "He knew everything, Artie. All about the deal, and the kiss, and everything."

Arthur shook his head. "I know how it looks, but Ivan's a conniving bastard. He could quite easily have just found everything out through conventional means. I know it seems that everything's supernatural and going down the bog, but there is such a thing as the internet and Ivan – though Heaven only knows why – is friends with Alfred on Facebook. It doesn't help that Alfred treats Facebook like MySpace and puts a lot of stupid things on there, most of them about me. Which of course, I learnt through Peter."

Gilbert eyed him as Arthur pulled a marker from a drawer under the kettle. "You're a lot calmer."

Salem hissed at him from her perch on Arthur's shoulders as the Englishman crossed back to the table and began drawing an intricate circular, geometric pattern on it. "Once we've done this I'll close you off," he sighed, his free hand going to the black cat's head and rubbed behind her ears. She gave a haughty glare to Gilbert as she went about marking Arthur's fingers with her scent whilst Arthur remained oblivious to what a monster his cat was. "I'll sign the papers to take Alfred off life-support if he doesn't wake up in three weeks, and I'll plead manslaughter to Matthew's death. The most they'll give me is seven years."

"Even by my standards, that is one of the stupidest plans I've ever heard," Gilbert announced. He watched Salem warily as he crossed the room to run his fingers through the white synthetic fur of the bear that had been on the table for the last five minutes. "I mean, come on, Artie, you'll get shower-raped for certain. You're a skinny Brit, you don't stand a chance."

"I suggest you shut up," Arthur replied, capping the pen and tossing it over his shoulder. "I'm doing the right thing. There will be justice for Matthew's death, you won't go insane, and Alfred won't spend the rest of his life as a vegetable."

"Well, I think you're being stupid, but there's no point arguing over it. We don't have time. So how do we do this, then? What do we need; an altar? Some virgin blood?"

"You to shut up would be a good place to start," Arthur replied, grabbing the polar bear and slapping it into the middle of the circle.

"That looks like alchemy to me."

"It is alchemy, now shut up."

Arthur pulled his lighter from his pocket and tested it, and as he did so, the lights in the kitchen flickered, the one above their heads exploding in a shower of sparks.

"Oh, stop it!" Arthur snapped. "Bloody Ghosts." He glanced at Gilbert, his free hand up to hold the little black cat on his shoulders as she nuzzled at his ear. "Stand back."

When Gilbert had done so, Arthur flicked his lighter on once more, spark catching gas, and lighting even as he tossed it onto the bear and stepped away. Immediately, the synthetics caught and the toy ignited, Arthur mumbling under his breath in a language Gilbert didn't understand but sounded vaguely like Latin, Salem purring along with him. As the flames grew, Gilbert's hands went to his ears, but Arthur just laughed and stopped chanting or whatever it was he was doing.

"Don't worry," he laughed. "The smoke alarm won't go off. I unplugged it. Sick of hearing it go off every time I put something in the oven."

Sure enough, the bear had burnt to a crisp and burnt most of the circle off of the table, though the table itself hadn't got a mark on it, and the smoke alarm still hadn't gone off.

Arthur sighed a little, sad, perhaps, melancholy. "I dread to think how Matthew feels."

"Worse than us," Gilbert supplied, stepping back to stand against the fridge as Arthur set about clearing the wreckage. "What do we do now?"

"Get to the Asylum," Arthur told him, wheezing a little as Salem jumped from his shoulders to flee outside. "And try to destroy the demon. If that doesn't work, well, we'll have to kill Matt."

"What about payment?" Gilbert asked, following Arthur as he emptied the remains of the bear outside in a trashcan. "You do know that if you plead manslaughter, the cops'll go through that, don't you? They'll find the bear and use it to pin you for murder."

"As if it'll come back as a real substance on tests," Arthur sniped. "I used a specific circle for it, Gilbert. One which burns it _completely_. It's just ash. It doesn't _have_ an original substance anymore. I can cover my own tracks, you know. And I can still do this without you."

"Matt won't come to you," Gilbert told him, and the way Arthur stopped dead suggested that he'd been hoping that Gilbert hadn't realised that. "He'll know you're there to kill him, and he'll hide. He'll just come to me. Face it, Artie, you _need_ me."

"Oh, screw you." And Arthur stomped off back inside, but left the door open for Gilbert to follow him in. "Do you have a clue what you're doing?" he asked after a moment.

"No," Gilbert admitted, because what was the point in lying?

"Well," Arthur shrugged, staggering a little as he tripped over Salem winding through his legs. "Goddammit, cat! Looking at the Asylum, I'd say that all the Ghosts are going to be corporeal. If you have any form of weaponry, I suggest you get your hands on it, because we'll take a beating. The demon – Matt – has to know, as you said, that I'm there to kill him, that you're there to do damage, because I'm not stupid enough to think you'll actually deal the killing blow, you won't do it, no matter what happens."

"Is that just the general plan?" Gilbert asked, incredulous. "Go in there with all guns blazing and hope we hit the demon?"

"Pretty much."

"Sounds like as good a plan as any, I suppose." But Gilbert was dubious. Arthur had known for too long now what the circumstances were, what Matt was becoming, what the demon wanted. He was keeping something from Gilbert, something that might make or break them and he wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or not that he didn't know. "Where do you want to meet? I can clear Uncle's gun cabinet out."

"Let's say… Let's say the lake," Arthur decided after a moment's thought in which he looked out of the window and contemplated whatever it was he wasn't saying. "We'll meet at the lake in twenty minutes and then we'll head on down to the Asylum and get this finished."

"You're not saying something."

"I'm not saying a lot of things, Gilbert, in case we get there and Matthew possesses you again. Actually, on that note." He disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with the marker. He tripped over the cat again as he crossed back to Gilbert's side. He grabbed his wrist and straightened his fingers, his palm to the air. "Hold still. This should be enough to provide you a little protection from Matt. I mean, if you invite him in again, like you did last time – oh yes, Gilbert, that's what the kiss was, that's all it was to Matt, an invitation in – this won't be enough to stop it, but it'll keep your system scrambled enough that he can't get a leg in." He gave the East German a filthy little look that might have been lewd if the situation hadn't been so dire. "Not, I'm sure, that you'd mind that."

The pattern he drew on Gilbert's palm was another geometric, circular pattern, but it differed from the one he'd drawn on his table. It glowed faintly, the same flecked crimson as his eyes and even a little of the lavender of Matthew's. He studied it for several moments before meeting Arthur's gaze.

"I'm scared," he whispered.

"So am I. I'm always scared, Gilbert, but this is it, now. This is the last leg. I can make you forget, if you want. Forget any of this happened."

"Why would I want to forget?"

Arthur's eyes were sad. "Because this is going to kill you."

"I'll be fine!" Gilbert assured him, protesting a little too loudly. He turned and made for the door. "The lake, twenty minutes, right?"

"Right."

* * *

The first place Gilbert headed was not back home, but to _The Louvre_, and to Francis.

"Arthur's a lying shit bag, I need a ride."

"Well, hello to you too," Francis replied with a roll of his eyes. He straightened from where he was wiping the bar down. "What do you want?"

"Arthur. He's lying. He's going to try and stop Matt before I get there, I'm not completely stupid. So I need a ride. I need to get Lukas out of the house first and get the guns and there's no way I can do anything without a ride, so gimme."

"Please."

"_Francis_."

Francis waggled a finger in Gilbert's face, and chuckled. "Not without the magic word, Gilbert."

"How about I punch you in the throat?" Gilbert snapped back, attempted to lunge for the Frenchman's pocket, but he danced out of reach.

"Not a chance in hell," Francis told him. "Logic, Gilbert, logic."

Gilbert heaved a long-suffering, agitated sigh and threw himself onto a stool. "Arthur doesn't think I'll be able to deal the killing blow to Matt, even though I'm fairly sure it's _got_ to be me, I mean, why else would Arthur be so cagey about getting me involved, he's not that stupid, surely. He's terrified of what might happen, 'cause Matt's already possessed me twice, and he might do it again and Arthur might not be able to break the link if it happens again, so he's going to try and destroy the demon before I get to the Asylum."

"Which will kill Matthew."

"Yes."

Francis nodded and tossed the cloth he'd been using onto the counter. "Alright. But why – and where – are you planning on taking Lukas?"

"Feliciano's house," was Gilbert's instant reply. "I know Ludwig's there already, he's been there since I came back from the Asylum. Feliciano promised to take care of Lukas if something happened to me, and it's better safe than sorry."

"You're planning on saying goodbye?"

"I'm planning on taking precautions. The less he knows the better. Christ, France, I nearly blew my brains out playing Russian Roulette. We've just burnt that bear of Mattie's, and shit's about to go down. I don't have _time_ to say goodbye. So. Ride?"

For a long moment, Francis stood with his hands holding Gilbert's face, meeting his eyes and frowning a little, as if searching for something. Then he released him, and nodded.

"Alright," he said. "Alright, I'll give you a ride. It's a good job it's getting late. Let me call Marie and tell her she'll have to open up, and then we'll go." As he pulled out his _BlackBerry_ and began dialling, he added, "You can use the club phone to call Romulus, I should imagine he'd like to know he's having another visitor. It's also a good job I have an SUV, isn't it? Imagine if I had something as utterly useless as that Mini Arthur used to drive before Alfred ruined the suspension. You'd be screwed then, wouldn't you? Ah, Marie, _bonjour_. I need to ask a favour."

* * *

Lukas came stumbling down the stairs a few moments after Gilbert slammed the door shut, Francis at his side and both of them clearly agitated.

"Gil?" the little one asked, still clutching that mouse-and-broom, rubbing at his eyes and _oh_, if he wasn't adorable. "What's happening? Is father hurt? I don't – Feliciano?"

"No, no, no," Gilbert assured him, crossing over and crouching, pulling the boy into his chest and holding him tight despite his protests. "Everything's fine, everybody's fine. I promise. I want you to do something for me though, Luke, yeah?"

"Depends; am I going to get into trouble?"

"No," Francis promised, stood at the window and looking out. He gave the boy a reassuring smile. "Just do as your cousin asks, little one, please."

Lukas looked back to Gilbert and frowned. "What?" he asked, still suspicious, but worried as well. Neither of his elders were acting normal, what passed for normal anyway.

"I want you to pack a bag for me," Gilbert asked, hands swamping his cousin's tiny little shoulders, and he didn't acknowledge feeling them quiver under his clammy skin. "With enough clothes for overnight, maybe two nights."

"What, why?"

"You're going to stay with Feli and his family. West's there, so it's all cool. Cleared it with your dad and everything."

"Why do I have to go?" Lukas asked. "I don't get it, what's happening?"

"Shit, kid," Gilbert pleaded. "Don't ask questions, just do it, for me. I want you ready as soon as, don't worry about getting dressed. It's not like anyone'll see you. Go on, hop to!"

As if to emphasise his point, he prodded Lukas towards the stairs and sighed when he finally went up them. He cursed himself hoarse under his breath, crossed to the desk in the corner of the living room, felt under it, and a hidden drawer popped open on the other end. From it he withdrew a small silver key.

"Do I want to know what that's for?" Francis asked as they too headed upstairs.

Gilbert tossed an, "Uncle's gun cabinet," over his shoulder, and slipped through a plain door into Lothar's bedroom. A few moments later had him checking over a hunting rifle and hastily cleaning the lens with the hem of his T-shirt.

"There should be some rifle ammo under the bed," he told Francis, pulling out and attaching the accompanying shoulder-strap. "Grab it for us, would you?"

Francis did as asked as Gilbert next pulled out what might have been a basic handgun if not for the size and checked it over.

"What do you plan to do with it?" the Frenchman asked as he hauled a heavy suitcase up onto the bed, flicking it open and marvelling at the boxes of ammo inside.

Gilbert tucked the pistol in the back of his jeans, pulled his T-shirt over it and slammed the cabinet shut again. "I didn't go through fifteen summers learning how to fire a gun in order to waste it when I need it," he said abruptly, grabbing a duffel bag and shoving boxes of appropriate ammo inside. "The Ghosts in the Asylum are real now, right? That means they can be hurt. I'm going to hurt them."

"And what if you hurt Matthew?"

"I won't. I promise."

Francis cast him a dubious look, but nodded and helped Gilbert finish packing. Once they'd restored the bedroom to how it had looked before, they went to Lukas's bedroom, and found the boy sat waiting patiently enough. Gilbert went to the window and cracked it, leaning out to look, whilst Francis distracted the younger boy from his cousin.

"So," Francis hummed, clearly struggling for a topic. "I hear you like Feliciano's younger brother?"

"He's cool," Lukas shrugged, eyes straying back over to Gilbert, to the rifle slung over his back. "Where are you going?"

"There's a big bear in the woods," Francis explained, too glib to be believable. "We're going to track it down before it strays into town."

Lukas frowned, clearly not falling for it, but he didn't ask again.

"Right, I've just seen him," Gilbert said, giving Francis a significant look before hauling himself from the window and latching it shut again. "Let's get you to Feli's and we'll go get rid of this…bear."

He scooped Lukas onto his hip as Francis took the boy's bag, and they left the house as quickly – and noisily – as they'd entered it.

The drive was silent, Francis shaking as he changed gears and drifting his way round corners, clearly too used to rally-driving to be of any use on the roads, even if they were silent. Lukas sat in the back, humming to himself, an attempt at distracting himself from the tension between his cousin and his best friend. Feliciano and Ludwig met them on the driveway, though it was Romulus who pulled Lukas from the car.

Gilbert reached out to ruffle his baby cousin's hair, and then clasped the elder's hand. "Take care of him." It was a general statement, directed at Romulus, Feliciano and Ludwig all, and all three nodded.

"What are you planning on doing, Gilbert?" Ludwig asked.

He shook his head. "We'll have to see when we get there. Oi," he added to Romulus, though not as rude as he might have been. "You'll keep an eye on Arthur as well, right?"

Romulus nodded. "I'll look after everyone as though they were my own." He grinned a little. "I was thinking of putting a horse's head in that copper's bed. The one that's following Arthur around. But I don't know."

"Just put weed in his morning coffee," Gilbert shrugged. "Stranger things."

Romulus laughed even as Ludwig made a disapproving noise, and Francis lifted the handbrake, changed gear and they swerved their way out of the driveway and back into the night.

"I don't like this," Francis said after a minute's silence.

Gilbert grunted. "You don't have to," he shrugged. "You're not the one going in there."

After nearly tipping the SUV onto two wheels as he swerved round a corner, Francis looked across at him and said, "What if you can't kill the demon?"

"Who said anything about killing the demon?" Gilbert shrugged, pulling the rifle from the footwell and jerking the bolt-handle.

"Arthur."

"Well, I'm not going to kill it; I'm going to pay it."

"With what?" Francis demanded, and the way he jerked the gearstick suggested he was angrier than he appeared, that he already knew Gilbert's answer, even as the East German climbed out of his seat to sit in the window with one foot braced against the edge of Francis's seat and the other against the handbrake's storage compartment, taking aim at the Asylum, at the smoke and flames rising from it, at the black ooze that ebbed its way towards them even as they wound their way through the woods.

His voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind, but Francis could see the determination on his best friend's face, the taut lines of every muscle in his body, the way his eyes softened as he looked back.

"With me."

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I'm actually a little unhappy with this chapter, but there's only one more to go after this!

Say hello to **Salem, Arthur's black cat**. As a cat-owner myself, I have to say Arthur having a cat is highly appropriate. Apollo knows this, but I went on a major cute-cat-picture binge whilst trying to write Chapter 10, so she has her own little place in this world (and maybe in nation-world too) as a tiny little black ball of fluff that Arthur fell in love with the moment he saw her and therefore had to have. She was the runt of the litter but held her own well (seeing a resemblance here?) and it was that strength that drew Arthur to her. She'll appear a lot more in the sequel. I bet you all forgot that Arthur's windows have paw prints on, didn't you?

I can't see **Arthur having Facebook**. Or if he does, he's one of those who never goes on it except to play MouseHunt. As for me, I treat my Facebook like Alfred; I post crap on there no one cares about – or gets – but it amuses me and therefore has five minutes of glory before I find something better.

Gilbert apparently **watches **_**Full Metal Alchemist**_**.**

Arthur is **clearly saying**, _Bring on the fire, bring on the hell, set everything ablaze, so no trace remains, bring on the fire_. Yes, I just went there. And I very nearly put the Latin translation in.

It would be a **BlackBerry**, the iPhone's won't be released for another two years.

The rifle Gilbert uses is a **MANNLICHER Pro Hunter MKII**. It's a beast of a rifle, and also bolt-action. I have a thing for bolt-action firearms after using one in _Resident Evil 4_. I was also not staring at my RE4 poster when writing Gilbert picking up weaponry of course not what are you suggesting? His **pistol**, coincidentally, is a Desert Eagle, one of the strongest out there, and is also, despite a mate's opinion, not a magnum, not from what the website told me. Why Lothar, what do you do to have a gun cabinet filled with guns that cost over a thousand dollars?

The **French **are some of the best WRC drivers in the world. And the Finns too. Part of my head!canon has France and Finland rally-driving for kicks when they get bored.

**Hope you enjoyed my lovelies, remember, review and let me know what bits you liked, and the bits you didn't! *this is totally not a push for more reviews because I'm being spoilt with them* ++Vince++**


	15. Chapter 12: Now or Never:Time of Dying

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **Payment is given and the end finally arrives.

**A/N: ** So here we are, at the very end of the story, and I just want to say; THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH and I'M SO SCARED I'M GOING TO DISAPPOINT YOU SO MUCH. But anyway! I've been naughty and used two _Three Days Grace _songs here, I honestly couldn't decide between the two because this was meant to be two chapters but actually worked out into being one but whatever! Enjoy my lovelies!

**A/N2: **For **Apollo **and** Silence **and** everybody else as well **but those two in particular.

**A/N3:** After listening (reading) to Apollo cry her dear little heart out, I made the mistake of reading _General Relativity_. My brain, and my heart, and all those other little things in between (including my vocal cords, which were properly squealed into silence, my eyes which blurred to hell with tears, and my feet from the amount of pacing I did. I do that a lot. Pace. I don't know why.) failed to cope and I was left a quivering wreck for some ten minutes, because I don't have the attention span to dwell for any longer than that, though I can hold a grudge like the best of them, but that's not important. What is important is that I kind of maybe just a little shop USA/CAN now, if just for that fill.

**A/N4: **ONWARDS!

**Chapter 12: Now or Never, It's Our Time of Dying**

"With me."

Francis lost control of the wheel for a second, nearly threw Gilbert from his perch in the window, and promptly ignored the East German's curses whilst he straightened the SUV out. He brushed hair from his face, changed gear, wished he'd taken his bar apron off because the zipped pocket was digging into his stomach, mused that tonight was going to be a nice night, felt his thoughts reverberate off of the inside of his skull, bounce around inside his head in a downward spiral of panic. Gilbert wasn't helping that.

"What?" the Frenchman demanded helplessly, barely more than a squeak – a low, husky, French squeak, but a squeak nonetheless. "What?" he repeated, because his brain was barely functioning and its few lit bulbs were being used to keep the car on the road, not puzzle over his friend's insanity.

"You heard," Gilbert replied breezily, pulling the rifle into the niche of his shoulder and letting off a shot into the ooze heading towards them.

As if the idea of the ooze wasn't strange enough, it actually _recoiled_ from them, an unnatural screech nearly shattering their eardrums and Gilbert visibly winced from his perch, batted his ear to get his equilibrium back, and fired again. Another screech, angrier this time, and the ooze recoiled further.

Gilbert pulled himself back into the passenger seat, and frowned out of the windshield. Francis said nothing.

"It's not," Gilbert started after a moment, but stopped. Another moment and then he started again. "I don't _want_ to do this," he said. "But I _have_ to."

At the gates of the Asylum, Francis pulled the handbrake up, left the engine ticking, and climbed out of the SUV as Gilbert did the same, bringing the rifle and ammo-filled backpack with him. They met at the front bumper, and frowned at each other. The Asylum screamed at them, fires billowing and smoke coiling at the edge of the gates but unable to touch them. As one, they raised the appropriate hands and flipped it off. It screamed some more, but left them alone.

"Gilbert, you'll _die_," Francis said, as though Gilbert didn't know that already.

"I know," Gilbert replied, closing his eyes for a moment. "Look, I know I haven't been the best of friends these last few weeks, hell, these last few years, I've been a right little shit, but, oh God, Francis, you're my best friend, you know that? You and Antonio and Arthur, you're my best friends and I don't _want_ to leave you behind. I don't want to leave you with the mess I leave behind me _again_, but don't you see? I'm not doing this for me, I'm not doing it to be a dick, I'm doing it for all of you. I'm doing it for Matt, and Arthur and Alfred, I'm doing it for you and the rest of our mates. I'm doing it so that you can move on with your lives, so that you can go to bigger and better things and leave the bad memories behind, keep the good ones without interruption."

"You're being an utter dick," Francis told him, and if there were tears in either of their eyes, neither said anything. "You're being an utter dick and pulling an Arthur and it isn't funny, or heroic, or 'awesome'. Not in the least."

"I'm _sorry_," Gilbert whispered. "But, Matt needs justice for his death, because even if they _find_ his killer, it's not _him_ that did it. It's the demon. Without the demon being satisfied, Matt'll never have peace. Arthur said that Alfred's coma wasn't natural, that it was caused by the demon. That if the demon's out of the equation, Alfred'll wake up. He might not be the same, because this – Francis, this isn't _normal_, but he'll have a _chance_. Arthur's planning on taking him off life support, planning on pleading manslaughter to Matthew's death, and I can't let that happen. Don't you see, Francis? I'm giving them a chance at life, giving them a chance to be together in the way me and Matt, in the way we never got to be!"

"How noble." But the words were bitter, hurt.

"I know you don't understand, Francis," Gilbert sighed. "I know what you're thinking and trust me, I _am_ that much of an asshole. But I'm _trying_, I've screwed up so badly these last weeks, these last years, since before Alise, before I came to Saint Hetalia at all, since before my parents were taken – since before they died. And I'm trying to make up for that, because no matter what happens now, I don't have long left. I know I don't. I can't explain it, but my life's ending, I can feel it in my bones. I'm not scared, but, I don't know. I just…" He shook his head. "Don't you see, Francis? I have to do this, to give you all a chance at life."

"I can't say anything to stop you, can I?" Francis asked with a heavy sigh, a slanting of his eyebrows that showed resignation beyond what his voice might demonstrate.

Gilbert shook his head again. "No, nothing." He gave his friend a crooked little smile. "Still, can't say it's a bad way to go, right?"

To which Francis laughed, a sad little chuckle as he ducked his head to stare at his feet. "You, Gilbert Beilschmidt, are an utter bastard, I hope you know that. You're a completely and total bastard, but I love you anyway."

"Aw, Francis," Gilbert cooed, grinning like the bastard he was. "I didn't know you cared!"

Francis smacked his arm, caught it in the next second and pulled him into a tight embrace which Gilbert returned with equal strength. For a long moment, they clung to each other, not caring for propriety or masculinity, because they both knew this might be the last time they ever saw each other.

"I hate you," Francis hissed into Gilbert's neck. "I hate you so much sometimes."

"I know," Gilbert whispered back. "I know, and that's why I'm doing this. To make up for that. 'Ere, say something good about me at my funeral, alright?"

"I can't think of anything that I would say was 'good'," Francis grinned. "But I promise I won't embarrass you. Much."

"Hate you, Francis, hate you so much."

They pulled away, hands still on each other's arms, and stood forehead to forehead for a minute before letting go. Francis moved back to the car, Gilbert to the gates.

"Take care of yourself, Francis," Gilbert told him. "Get back to town, back to the club, and get pissed in the back with a bottle of the best vodka you've got in stock. Put it on my tab. I'll try and send Arthur your way, but I doubt he'll leave."

"And you, Beilschmidt," Francis warned. "You've been a right shit, as you rightly said, but you're the best friend I've had in a long time. Don't do something any more stupid than what you're doing now, and if you see Matthew… Don't hold this to his head, Gilbert. He has had no control over it."

"I'm not going to," Gilbert promised. "I won't hurt him, Francis. I swear to you, even if it kills me before I pay the demon, I swear to you, I won't hurt Matt."

"I'm holding you to it. I love you."

"Love you too, now _go_!"

Francis remained stood there for a second, one foot in the SUV, hands on the top and door frame, and just frowned at him, before nodding once and climbing in. He flashed the lights, threw the vehicle into reverse and disappeared. Gilbert watched him go, hands on the rifle and the backpack slung over his shoulder, and then sighed, turned to look up at the mess of the Asylum, and kicked the gates in.

* * *

Gilbert should have burnt to a crisp the moment he set foot in the building. There was fire on every wall, smoke three-feet thick on the floor, corporeal Ghosts attacking him from the off, ooze clinging to his clothes and skin, sticking his feet to the floor and trapping him in the fog. But such things were not going to deter him from his path, would not force him to change his mind about his goal.

But he did not burn, and though he wasted several dozen bullets in the foyer alone, he was not harmed. The Ghosts recoiled from him, as though the bullets actually hurt, and Gilbert was surprised they didn't learn that he could only use a rifle at a several-foot distance. The screaming burst his eardrums, made his head ring and spun his equilibrium until it was anything but. For a while, he existed in a kind of half-state, not entirely there. At one point, he thought he might have vomited.

"You do know that shooting them is entirely pointless, don't you?" a familiar, too-familiar and not-close-enough voice asked, abruptly righting Gilbert's world and turning it into something that vaguely made sense.

"Matt," he choked, and when had he fallen to his knees?

The Canadian Ghost laughed a little, crouched in front of him and touched cold hands to his burning cheeks, smoothed across his wrinkled nose and brow, brushed sweaty hair from his forehead.

"Silly thing," he chided without feeling, and hauled Gilbert to his feet as though he weighed little more than a child, little more than the bear they'd burnt. He looked a little angry, and a little less corporeal than Gilbert would have liked him to be, but he was _there_, he was still _there_, and that was enough. It was wrong, and he _shouldn't_ be, and he shouldn't be _okay_, but it was enough.

"Matt," Gilbert repeated, a little surer now, a little clearer, and Matthew's smile was worth it all.

"Hello," Matthew replied, as though they'd just met in town, as though they weren't stood nose-to-nose at the gates of Hell. "What's this?" Matthew asked, amused a little, curious mostly, cradling Gilbert's palm as though he believed it to be the most precious thing in the world. As Gilbert glanced at the calluses on the heart and head line of his palm, both lines broken, the calluses worn shiny and hard with a decade of constant contact with rock and metal, wood and grooved plastic, at the pale, stained creases of his skin, at the grit under his nails and the rough skin at the base of each, he wondered how that might be.

One of Matthew's fingers traced the pattern Arthur had drawn, and unbidden came a nursery rhyme, a tickle of cold warmth against his flesh – _round and round the garden, like a teddy bear_ – and it was inappropriate, but blunt, perfect in its imperfections and Gilbert nearly laughed, nearly cracked his ribs holding it in, but he remained silent, stoic. Ready. A flare of light burst from it, flecks of crimson and lavender, mauve and magenta, red and purple, black and white, and it flashed in the lavender fog of Matthew's eyes, stretched across his smile as he laughed. He looked beautiful like that, alight with realisation and humour, shadowed with promise and even a little anger, a thrill of feeling that rushed from Gilbert's palm and straight into his heart, into his gut.

"Oh, I see," the Ghost said, perhaps a little pointlessly, but he was still grinning, though he was reining it in as he best he could. His hand twisted a little, linked into Gilbert's and with a little tilt of his head he said, "I suppose you're going to apologise."

"I didn't know what else to do," Gilbert whispered, wanting nothing more than to sink into Matthew's chill, bury himself in the feel of cold air around him, away from the heat, away from the screaming. He imagined Matthew would be quiet, a still silence full of little gasps and smiles.

His heart was pounding, a mile a minute in his chest, shuddering against his ribs and unable to keep pace without itself. Matthew put his hands to that shuddering heart and smiled some more.

"I know. Arthur's here somewhere."

"I know," Gilbert whispered in echo, eyes falling shut and body rocking into Matthew's cool touch, into the feeling of fog and mist settle across the bare skin on his arms, on his neck, cool breaths that shouldn't have been but were brushing across his lips and cheeks. He was close enough to touch, and yet Gilbert couldn't move, couldn't raise his hands, couldn't lean forward, tip his head just so and kiss him. One kiss had been enough to cause this. Was one kiss enough to end it?

The phantom of a kiss, ghosting across the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the faintest brush of a nose, and he chased that feeling, onto to have it slip from his fingers.

"I'm here," Matthew whispered, his lips cool and breath laughing across Gilbert's ear, body slipping into Gilbert's space, fitting against him like it was meant to be there, and there was barely an inch between them in any height, width or breadth, barely space for a breath between them, and yet he wasn't there at all, just a feeling, a thought.

_So kill me now, end this here. _

"I can't," Gilbert replied, turning into the sensation and missing it when it eluded him further. "I won't. I promised." A breath and then, "Matt, get somewhere safe. Please."

Matthew's chuckle barely brushed across his ears, across his jawline, and there were fingers in his hair, on the bumps of his spine as they jutted from the back his neck, and then sensation vanished, leaving him in a dark, empty abyss, falling into a space he didn't know could exist, let alone have any desire to inhabit.

Arthur was there, shaking his shoulder, patting his cheek, far too rough, and yet gentle, delicate for the Englishman's abrasive nature, and Gilbert coughed and choked and gasped his way back into the land of the living and Arthur was livid.

"What the _hell_?" he was saying. "What did you think you were _doing_? You shouldn't have followed me!"

"'M not stupid," Gilbert told him, trying – and failing – to get to his feet, accepting the hands Arthur wrapped around his arms as leverage, and he mourned, briefly, the lack of a rifle in his own hands. "I knew what you were doing. I won't let you."

"Won't let me what?" Arthur asked, stepping away and watching as Gilbert struggled to ground himself. The geometry on his palm was smudged against the wall as he pushed himself from it, but neither thought to look to notice. "Finish what you started? Finish what you _won't_?"

"I can," Gilbert told him, petulant and decisive, angry and hurt, but most of all he was determined, and he was ready. "And I will."

"Excuse me if I don't believe you."

"I hate you."

"And I assure you that the sentiment is returned whole-heartedly." But there was no bite in either of their words so they brushed it off and looked out over the swarming Ghosts and the swelling fire, at the smoke at their hips and the ooze under their feet, crawling over their skins.

"Where do we go from here?" Gilbert asked, because somebody had to break the silence. Without his rifle, he drew the pistol from the back of his jeans, clicked the safety off with a well-practiced thumb, and his free hand used the slide to chamber a round only to brace his shooting hand as a well-practiced soldier should.

"We find the demon," Arthur said, giving Gilbert a filthy little look. "And then I'll kill it. If you're lucky I might kill you too."

"Cheers," Gilbert replied, a sarcastic little sneer on his face as he lifted his arms, planted his feet.

They started off down the corridor, and had they really been in the foyer all this time? Arthur was breathing through his nose like some kind of wild beast, but his steps were careful, his arms up in wariness, or maybe readiness, so Gilbert knew that for all his blustering anger, the Englishman was terrified, hoping to keep Gilbert safe as much as he was hoping to kill him. There was a tensing in his shoulders every time Gilbert pulled the trigger, the ricocheting echo of the shot sounding too loud in the sudden silence. Were the screams silent, or was it just Gilbert? Could Arthur hear it? Was something blocking Gilbert from the noise?

"Matthew's here," Arthur said after several minutes, and belatedly, Gilbert looked up and saw the lopsided sign, the faded _maximum security_ printed in broken letters and felt the end settle.

"I know," Gilbert replied, nodding a little and letting off the last round of the clip, releasing it and sliding a new one home in one easy, economic movement. "I've seen him."

"Yes," Arthur agreed, ducking a Ghost's swipe and planting a marker-stained palm against its distorted brow. With a scream, it dissipated, but Gilbert had learnt that such geometry didn't destroy it, merely relocated to attack them later. "I thought you might have."

"I won't hurt him." Gilbert frowned a little. "I promised Francis. I promised myself. I promised him."

Arthur hummed and didn't say anything.

"I don't want him to get hurt," Gilbert continued. "I don't want him anywhere near here when shit goes down. What we're doing, it's not going to be pretty, and he can't see it. He has to stay away."

For a second, Arthur paused in utter stillness, looked at Gilbert as though truly seeing him for the first time, and everything fell into place in that moment, all the things they had been fighting and ignoring, and then the Englishman smiled, a soft little smile that said everything he couldn't give voice to.

But just as suddenly as the moment had come, it was gone, and both of them were knocked away from each other, thrown back down the corridor, skidding along broken tiles and through the ooze, choking in the smoke, and Gilbert found himself being hauled to his feet, familiar hands on his arms, and he wondered where the Ghost had been.

Matthew plastered himself to Gilbert's chest as the East German staggered back against the wall, his hands framing Gilbert's face even as they met shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, hip to hip, toe to toe. Vaguely, Gilbert noted that Matthew's hips were slimmer, fit snugly into the cradle of his own, but his brain struggled to catch up to the tears on the Canadian's face, the sobs wracking that slimmer, barely corporeal body.

"I'm not going to leave you!" the younger hissed, pressing a desperate, cold and metaphysical kiss on his lips that left a thrill in Gilbert's system even though he'd barely felt it. "I won't just _let_ you go!"

"Matt, get out of my way." And _oh_, it hurt, but he couldn't just let Matthew stop him, couldn't let _Arthur_ do the damage he'd been planning on for a week or more, not when he was this close to doing what he'd vowed to do, not when payment was on the very edge of his fingertips, his nails scrabbling to gain purchase in the sensation.

"Gilbert, I'm telling you! I'm here for the long haul! Just like you! We're together in this, right? It was my deal that brought you here, so I'm not going _anywhere_. Suck it up!"

And Gilbert laughed, he couldn't help the hysteria bubbling in his chest. Was no one listening to him? Was he being ignored for the kicks?

Another kiss, softer this time, deeper, but Gilbert knew what it meant, knew that it was just a tactic, Arthur had said so. But he kissed back anyway, because what did Arthur know; Gilbert saw what Matthew was driving at and did the calculations, understood that it might be his only chance to get to where he needed to be and seized it with his very soul.

Vaguely, he could hear Arthur shouting at him in the background, on the edge of his consciousness, but he paid it no heed, absorbed in the moment as the geometry began to smudge further, ignored because it wasn't a solid wall, it was only an iron fence and Gilbert had cut through enough of them to find the weak points, and hadn't Arthur said that it would only work if he didn't invite Matthew in?

"I love you," he whispered against Matthew's lips as the Canadian began sinking into him, melting and freezing and he could feel the other's mind melding against his own, and he felt full, too full and too empty all at once, needing – wanting – all of Matthew in there with him, knowing it was safe in his body, safe in his head. He was safe when they were together, they both were. It was good, it was _right_.

Matthew laughed against him, _in_ him, and kissed him back.

Arthur's shouting was even fainter now, drowned out in equally faint screaming of Ghosts being burnt from their current niche in the world, shoved into another.

"I love you too. Always have. Always will. It was always you."

And just like that, they were one and the same, the definition of soul mates and the abomination of mankind. Gilbert's shoulders rolled, his back arched, and a victorious laugh bubbled up from his chest, split the air as the Ghost around them watched and hovered, unsure of how to deal with this amalgamation of man and spirit. Gilbert was strong, too strong and too weak, all of Matthew's strengths and all of Gilbert's weaknesses counteracting Gilbert's strengths and Matthew's weaknesses, fighting for dominance as Gilbert-Matthew snagged up the Desert Eagle that had been knocked from his hand at the initial hit and began jogging down the corridor, through the sea of Ghosts that parted before him-them as he-they reached his-their goal.

The demon was not, as Gilbert thought it might be, the billowing creature of fangs and smoke-filled nostrils, rotting flesh and horrendous screams that a lack of cognition had led him to believe it would be. Instead, it was understated, pulling at the very pit of his soul, and Matthew was in there with it, bolstering his forces against the power it possessed, but Gilbert was already lost to it. It stood there, in its long black coat, shimmering as if in rain, open over a khaki, single-breasted jacket, dark tie and pale shirt impeccable, bronze buttons and burnished brown leather belt and buckle glistening with water, the red insignia on the jacket lapels and stripes on the trousers bright against the fog, shining from the blank, featureless face.

++_Hello, Gilbert_++

_Gil, you aren't thinking of what I think you're thinking of, right? Don't do this. It's madness._

"What should I call you?" Gilbert asked instead, hand twitching as if to brush Matthew's worry aside, but not daring.

_Gil, he'll kill you._

_I know_, Gilbert thought, heart jack-hammering in his chest. _That's what I'm hoping for_.

++_I'm not foolish, Gilbert_++ the demon replied. ++_I will not play a game of Rumpelstiltskin with you. I will not be defeated by the mere power of a name. I have seen lesser men fall of such things, and I will not fall prey to the same parlour trick_++

_I hate him_.

Gilbert laughed, though what he laughed at, he wasn't entirely sure. Matthew dug his heels in in the very back of Gilbert's mind, wrapped himself about his heart and held on tight, thoughts running in circles, desperately trying to lay claim to what was his, protect Gilbert from the thing coming for him.

"I am not afraid," Gilbert said after a moment, and he _wasn't_, and that was _strange_ because he _should_ be, but Matthew was there, they were _together_, closer than close, one and the same and it was _right_. "Of you or of what's to come. I know my course, and I will follow it to the end."

The demon smiled, a grin of Cheshire teeth and the darkness came ever closer, wrapping tight about them both and the demon was everywhere and nowhere, one man and all men, every Ghost and not one, and they were alone in the maximum security day ward, Arthur pounding on locked doors, but the sound barely registered. It was just them. Just Gilbert-Matthew, just the demon, just the fear and the trepidation and the mind-boggling sense of peace the flooded in him in their wake.

++_You are brave. Foolish. But brave. You have not come here to kill me_++

"No," Gilbert agreed. "I haven't."

++_Then what_ have_ you come here to do_++

"I'm not going to make you a deal," Gilbert said, pacing a little, Matthew curling up in his chest, in his head, the feeling of lips under his jaw, fingers on his pine, breath in his ear calming him, relaxing muscles he didn't know he'd tensed, eased breathing he didn't know was catching. "There is nothing I want that only you can give me, and there is nothing I can give you that you would accept in payment. But that's it, isn't it? Payment."

++_I fail to see the point of this. I could kill you_++

"But you haven't," Gilbert replied, cocky. "Because you're _curious_. What would Gilbert Beilschmidt want with you instead of killing you when clearly that's the wisest thing to do?" A bark of laughter. "I was never one to follow the wisest course, never one to follow the rules."

++_You try my patience_++

"I do a lot of things. I want to give you payment. For the deal with Matthew."

++_A stupid idea_++

"But you're thinking about it."

Gilbert knew the demon was thinking about it, could feel it in the shadows, in the way the ooze slunk from underfoot, the way the fires dimmed and the way the smoke stopped trying to choke him. The thoughts ran unbidden across his mind, and he could feel Matthew sorting through them, cataloguing and indexing every little strand of cognition, identifying plans and the rush of love that came up to meet those thoughts was almost overwhelming. Idly, he wondered what it would be like to sink into bed with Matthew in his arms, what it would feel like to _really_ kiss him, and he felt Matthew's blush spread across his cheeks and ears, down his neck and warmth pooled content in his stomach.

_I hope this works_.

"It will," he whispered. "It will."

The demon watched him as he paced, and Gilbert-Matthew wondered whether it could hear them, hear their thoughts as they intermingled, as the very crux of their connected beings entangled so deeply, so firmly, that they _truly_ became one, so that there was no distinguishing between the two. The demon could see that bond, but could not hear their thoughts, tucked as they were into the niche of that amalgamation.

++_What do you propose in payment_++

"I propose," Gilbert began, stopping his pacing and laughing a little, hands spread invitingly, and tone not really condescending, because there was a little in Matthew there too, and he was tempering what Gilbert couldn't control, the real diplomat on this mission, and Gilbert's thoughts skittered for a second, wondered how Matt would have been as a political diplomat, how the back of his neck would have tasted if Gilbert had bent him over a conference table only minutes before a make-or-break deal with some big-ass company that could destroy everything Matthew held dear. Matthew shuddered, but it was barely a conscious thought, and barely even had a passing glance as Gilbert continued. "That I pay you. I will give myself whole heartedly to you, and in return you take me as final payment, you take from me what Matthew wouldn't – _couldn't_ – give you, what Alfred couldn't give you. We – Arthur, Francis and I – we've blocked you at every turn, made it impossible for you to get your payment. I'm offering it to you on a silver platter, with no tricks, and no small print. Just me."

++_Why_++

That of all things, the demon should wonder why Gilbert might do such a thing momentarily caught him, but he recovered his stride soon enough and shrugged modestly.

"I've learnt a lot of things this month," he said easily, and he knew that Matthew was frowning a little, could feel it in the pull of his eyebrows, the quirk of his mouth, and he knew Matthew did not know what he had to say, for honestly Gilbert didn't know either. "I've learnt what it means to be alive. I've nearly died twice this week alone. I've nearly died several times this month. I nearly took my own life this month. But that isn't what made me value life. It isn't my own mortality that's made me open my eyes.

"I've realised that life isn't about being alive, it isn't about having a heart that beats, or lungs that breathe. It's about the _people_ in your life, it's about who you value and trust, it's about what you do with your time. It's about making mistakes and setting them right. It's about having no regrets. Life is not a physical thing, it's anything but. You see, I fell in love with Matt. I fell in love with someone who's _dead_, and that's made me more alive than I've ever been. Because it _is_ love. It's something I've never really felt, and it's something I don't think I'd ever feel again, given the chance to go on. It's about finding the person that you treasure more than anything else, it's about giving yourself wholly to that person and knowing that you have everything of them in return.

"It's why I'm doing this," he said with a little smile that was half him, half Matthew, and a little accompanying nod, a decision made physical. "I'm giving the people I treasure most the chance at having that feeling. I'm giving them what I could never give them in life. I'm taking the bad memories from them and leaving them with the good. I'm doing everything I should have done years ago, when I could have knocked the gun from Alise's hand and saved her life, when I could have helped Mina die because she never asked me for it, but I knew she wanted it, when I could have stood up and said no to the Stasi, when I could have accepted my parents' death for what it was. I'm doing this for my family and for my friends, because they deserve all the chances I've been given and turned away."

_I love you_.

And Gilbert smiled, all Matthew and all Gilbert, all and none, everything and nothing, both and one. The darkness and the cool wetness of the lake wrapped around him, the warmth and softness of young skin and well-worn clothes hugged him close, endless trees and endless skies, endless ecstasy over him, through him, _in_ him. He was falling endlessly, but there was someone to catch him now, someone he'd catch before thinking of saving himself.

_I love you too._

The demon watched him suspiciously, just watched him.

++_You are sincere_++

"Like life," Gilbert replied, his hands still spread, the geometry on his palm completely worn away.

There was no smoke now, no fire, no ooze. Just Gilbert, wrapped tight in Matthew's arms, just the demon fading into fog, just Arthur tumbling through the doors as they abruptly gave to him, cursing like a sailor.

* * *

It was early morning, the dawn chorus just beginning. A few hours away, the cornfields rustled in the breeze. Closer, birds sung to each other songs of love and joy, discussed chicks and grubs and how green the leaves were this morning. There was no dew on the ground, no flecks of water beyond that on the edge of the lake. The Asylum, for its part, looked as though it had not been the scene of a battle, as though it had not burnt and smouldered and poured smoke from every cracked window and every gap in the masonry. There was no ooze and no fire, no smoke and no screaming.

Just the utter silence of an early morning.

And out into that dawn, into the clear blue skies and the leaf-green horizon stretched before them, tripping over rubble and refuge from over two decades of neglect and abuse, laughing all the way, stepped Gilbert Beilschmidt, Arthur Kirkland and Matthew Williams.

**++End++**

**NOTES::**

Didjer see that coming?

Why Gil, are you using your **rifle like a shotgun? **You naughty thing you.

Yes, that is the **Stasi uniform**. I had to look it up again, because they didn't just wander round in trench coats, as much as I wish they did. That was very much a Gestapo thing. I have trench coats anyway, because it's film noir shut up.

The demon will be explained properly in the explanation, but for now, I'll leave you to try and work out who it is. It's not a canon character, before you start. It's a… representation, rather than an entity. It's a principle, a generalisation of history, an interlinking possibility, not just one thing. Just like how the demon is – as Silence suggests – ALL of the inmates, it's ALL of the things that the characters fear, all of the things that link their histories together. I love my BFF for-fecking-EVER for coming up with the genius idea when I threw a major panic over it.

Coincidentally, **in that last line**, if you care to have the brains for it (**Silence** and **Apollo**, go lie down before you try to review, I don't think anyone will appreciate your brains all over the keyboard) I totally see Gilbert in the middle with his arm over Arthur's shoulders and his hand in Matt's back pocket. Because that's the way he rolls. BUT ANYWAY, ONWARDS.

I love you guys, no really, I do, and fear not, we'll have an epilogue to nicely round things off, which I actually wrote before I wrote this chapter, go figure. And, uh, I realise, looking back, that I haven't actually explained some things. I won't lie; I'm a complete airhead, and I did genuinely forget about some of the things, so if there's something that's been bugging you and I haven't explained it, I'll put it in an explanation at the very end along with some deleted, slightly cracky scenes, including Matt making Arthur spit tea halfway across the room and Gilbert losing his clothes because Matt's a prankster. Among other things. But yeah. I hope you've enjoyed this oft-emotional ride – I'm looking at Apollo Pompano, There Was a Silence and here because those three in particular have to be some of the most incoherent, utterly adorable and completely loved reviewers I've ever had.


	16. Epilogue: Life Starts Now

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **The fallout begins and the leaves are taken.

**A/N: ** I WANT TO THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR BEING SUCH AWESOMELY AMAZING PEOPLE WITH PRUSSIAN LEVELS OF AWESOME EVEN YOU NAUGHTY SUBSCRIBERS WHO KEPT GIVING ME ALERT EMAILS AND NEVER ONCE COMMENTED I KNOW YOU'RE LURKING OUT THERE SOMEWHERE THANK YOU TO YOU TOO EVEN THOUGH YOU NEVER COMMENTED AND ARE THEREFORE RUDE I LOVE YOU ANYWAY ESPECIALLY MY FAITHFULS YOU ARE THE MOST AMAZING PEOPLE EVER BUT I LOVE YOU ALL SO HAVE SOME EPILOGUE-Y-NESS. Enjoy my lovelies!

**Epilogue: Life Starts Now**

"Hello? Gilbert?"

Static distorted the words, let only half of them, if that, filter through.

"_It's... finally… Proud of you…. Remember… love you… After Lukas… Bang… Always proud… love you… So sorry… all that I… You around… goodbye, West."_

For a long moment, Ludwig sat staring at the screen of his mobile, wondering what on earth had happened to his brother. And then the phone began ringing again.

* * *

A steady bleeping noise, a steady pulse of life on the very fringe of conscious. Birds singing to each other from outside an open window, the lazy heat of late July. A low groan and a flutter of eyelids were the only indicators of anything in the room. Slowly, slowly as if falling into sleep, the bleeping noise dropped in pace, slowing, slow, slow, slow, till it was nothing but a single tone, a flat-line.

A gasp, a noise of surprise and then a grin spread across bruised cheeks.

"You're awake."

Another gasp, a struggle for breath, the sound of tape torn from skin, the coughing of lungs getting used to breathing real air, and then relieved laughter, even as that flat-line bleep continued in the background.

"Arthur!" The voice was hoarse, too hoarse and too-quiet, and it was scared, but there was relief.

The clink of metal as Arthur Kirkland hauled himself from his seat and crossed to where Alfred F. Jones struggled to shove himself onto his elbows, spinal damage be damned. Arthur was laughing as though sighing, his grin crooked but relieved, eyes soft as he perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, hands coming up to cup Alfred's face, and he was blurry, too blurry – his glasses were missing, and damn but Alfred wanted to see him now, see the relief on his face, see those scars and the messy hair and know for sure that he was _alive_ – but it didn't matter, because Alfred knew he was there, leant up into the cold skin of those hands, felt the warmth of wetness, the chill of metal against his throat, wondered what that was, but was distracted soon enough.

Arthur was kissing him as though it might be his only chance, barely a press of his lips, but they were there, meeting in the middle, and Alfred chased him when he tried to draw back. More butterfly kisses, Arthur's breath shaking across Alfred's face, his hands trembling as they held him, and Arthur bumped their noses together the way he might have bumped noses with his cat.

"I love you," he whispered against Alfred's mouth, and there was a shaky smile on his lips when Alfred parted his own to reply. "No matter what happens, remember that. I love you, always. It was always you. So no matter what happens, remember that I love you."

Another kiss, harder this time, more meaning, more importance, the briefest promise of things he'd like to do if they weren't in hospital and it sent a shiver down Alfred's spine, made him arch up into that kiss even as Arthur pulled away. Another laugh and then he pulled away.

"Yes, yes," he said to someone Alfred couldn't see. "I'm coming, I'm coming. Let me say goodbye in peace. Jesus Christ." Another kiss, quick and stolen, and then Arthur's lips were gone, his hands, and his weight rose from the edge of the bed, the mattress readjusting itself. Metal clinked again, and Arthur was cursing that same invisible person out, his voice fading as they disappeared from the room.

Alfred lay there in shock for some moments, until there was a clatter from outside, Arthur shouting something so insulting Alfred had no reaction but to wince, and then a familiar navy blue swanned across the haze and a calming female voice began talking to him, though Alfred could barely hear it beyond the mist that had settled now Arthur had gone, over the panicked thumping of his heart. All the while the flat-line beep remained at its steady, dead pace. Maybe she was saying something about that, because he was sure it was meant to keep beeping.

"I'm so glad to see you awake," the senior nurse was saying, "But it's such a shame about Mr Kirkland getting arrested like that, it looked like you two had a lot of catching up to do."

"Eh?" Alfred asked, blinking and screwing his eyes shut as the nurse did something with the blinds that made his head hurt.

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know, would you?" She bustled some more, and then Alfred felt something familiar and cool being pressed into his hand. Grateful, he shoved the half-wire-framed glasses so iconic of the _TEXAS_ brand back onto his face and the room swam into focus.

"How long have I been out?" he asked immediately, seeing the flowers on the side-stand and noting how fresh they were. The careful arrangement and familiar colours of home suggested that they'd come from Feliciano, especially if the loopy handwriting on the accompanying get-well-soon card was any indication.

"Only a day or so," the ward sister told him, and crossed to where he lay. "Now hold still, this will sting."

He winced at the feel of her removing all of the monitoring equipment, hissed at the feel of the needle being pulled from his elbow, but revelled in the blessed silence now the heart monitor had been switched off. His arm stung even after she affixed the protective adhesive, and his chest ached, but he'd been in worse pain.

"What happened?" was his next question. "You said Artie got arrested. What did he do this time? Streak through town?" He laughed a little, nervous beyond measure.

She gave him a sad, pitying look. "I'm afraid there's been another death."

"What?"

"Yes." She glanced at the door, clearly wondering if she could – and should – tell him. "The body of Gilbert Beilschmidt was found this morning. Arthur himself called the police and told them, but didn't remain with him. He came straight here to see you. It was as if he knew you'd be awake, the way he was acting."

"That sounds like Artie," Alfred mumbled, frowning off out of the window, fingers playing restlessly with the sheets, an indicator of his emotional state, because though his voice was calm and his face impassive, the boy had just woken from a coma from which specialists had been convinced he would not wake, and to wake to find out that the love of your life – for that, the nurse suspected, was what Arthur Kirkland was to him – had just been arrested was not the best of ways to go about things. "What'll happen to him?"

"Oh, Alfred," she sighed, and propped herself on the edge of his bed, the other side to the one Arthur had perched on, and his lips were still tingling and he was still warm with the feeling of his kiss, still warm with the knowledge that _yes_, Arthur Kirkland loved him, and he'd said as much in as many words and that was the best feeling in the world, even if it had been dampened somewhat by his immediate arrest. "You shouldn't worry about him for now. You need to worry about you. You've just woken from a coma, and I probably shouldn't have told you about Gilbert."

"No, no," he assured her hurriedly, snapping his gaze to her face. "I needed to know. I mean, Artie's just been arrested, yeah? It's important I know why. He's not… He won't get charged with murder, right?"

"I don't know," the nurse replied honestly. "I don't know the circumstances of Gilbert's death, but Arthur was undoubtedly the last person to see him alive."

Alfred didn't reply to that, the last warmth of Arthur's kiss draining from him and leaving him cold all over in a way he hated, a way that reminded him of the night he left for the army, the night he stood on Arthur's doorstep and cried his eyes out because everything was _wrong_ and he had no way of making it _right_, and things _could_ have been right now, but they weren't. The nurse, after checking him over one last time, left him alone to muse, telling him that if he wanted more information on what had happened, he could always check the news at lunchtime.

There was a big empty space inside him, and he vaguely remembered Arthur telling him that Mattie was still _there_, he was still with them, more than a metaphorical, emotional memory, but now there was just emptiness. Did that mean that Mattie was no longer here? Did that mean that Gilbert had died doing something that made Mattie move on? Was there even a little bit of glory in what Gilbert had done? It was hard to focus, his heart pounding in his chest, a litany of _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur_ running through his head, thoughts of _oh, bugger_ and _just go away and let me be_ forming unbidden in that familiar, lovely British accent, too Northern to be Received, but certainly with that twang to it, the audible curl in his letters as he snarled insults and hummed endearments, and _oh_, but Alfred loved him.

A couple of hours later, Alfred flicked the room's television on, hopped through the channels until he found the news.

A pretty little reporter stood outside the Asylum and a shiver ran down Alfred's spine and for all the July sunshine and birds outside his window, it was the dead of winter in that bed, ice crawling across his skin. There were police markers all over, and the bustle of an ambulance crew and forensic investigators in the background.

"_Hi, I'm reporting live from the Asylum where work is beginning on extracting Gilbert Beilschmidt's body from the maximum security ward of the Asylum behind me. The police are cagey about what details they are releasing so far, but twenty-three year old Arthur Kirkland and twenty-seven year old Francis Bonnefois have already been arrested in connection with the death. Police are currently treating the death as suspicious and believe it may have had some connection with the Williams' murder on the 1__st__. An initial sweep of the deceased's bedroom revealed a blood-stained serrated blade under the mattress, and tests are currently being run to identify the owner of both knife and blood_."

* * *

The air was warm, stale in the way all such things were stale. The ceiling was arched, supported with carved stone pillars, lined with dark wood beams and cobwebs, spiders watching in intrigue at the scene unfolding below them. Birds sung outside, from their perches on stones and in the grass, from atop wrought iron gates and old trees. Dappled shade mixed with the pattern of the leaded glass of the window, painted patterns across the floor as the old trees rustled in the breeze.

The air turned cold, but comforting, and a voice came from nowhere, everywhere and nowhere, and in the distance, the cornfields hummed in contentment.

There were no footsteps on the old worn flagstones, no echoes of life. Just voices, just the whisper on the air of something different about the world.

_Anybody home?_

A second voice replied, soothing and lilted much the same as the first, though of a different origin, older and laced with power unheard of, but that power was reined in, softer, familiar in a way the first never expected to hear.

_Hello, my child… What troubles you?_

For it was clear something was troubling the first, the edge of the accent, the hesitance in the call, the way the air curled and froze and licked metaphorical lips, equally metaphorical eyes glancing around. The stench of death was thick in the air, and the stench of pain too, but there was love there, there was peace and serenity and it filled the space with personality familiar to the second, if only in the vaguest of ways.

_Good morning, father. I have a confession to make._

A moment of wonder passed, in which the second puzzled over the words, wondered if the first knew of his demise. Yes, the second decided eventually. Yes, he did know, and had chosen for the moment to ignore it, to make his peace where he might otherwise have been denied. This was, of course, the second's purpose, to listen to these last words of peace, to take the deceased's hands and guide them through the darkness and the fog, and into a place where they might rest for eternity denied them in this plain. It was an eternity denied the first, certainly, for the eternity had already passed when the first had learnt of it. There was chance, the second hoped though such things should not be possible, that his descendant might yet find his eternity in the arms of the twin.

_Do you want to go somewhere else?_

Conventional or not, the nave was not a place in which to discuss private matters, whether there might be another there to hear them or not.

_Nah, here'll do. What I've done isn't a sin. I believe God sent it to me to test me. But my reactions to the trial are what I have to confess._

This was a brave one, the second mused. He was already content in what he'd done, made his peace with the actions and reactions, the words and thoughts, and merely wished to get them out in the open in the event that they might be held against him.

_Go on._

Silence for ten seconds, twenty, thirty, stretching into a minute before the first spoke again, his voice low and careful, picking his words as though fearful of giving offence. It was not as though such a thing was possible to one such as the second, but such consideration spoke volumes of the first's heritage, of the upbringing and the manner of death.

_I fell in love, you see. I know the Church condemns homosexuality, but how could He allow us to fall for our own sex if He didn't want us to? Cry 'demon' all you like, but we have to be able to fall in love in the first place if we're going to be tempted… Is that wrong?_

There was little point in asking such a thing; the bible and its teachings were before the second's time. But such comfort was necessary, so the second watched the air some more and replied with;

…_The bible is a world view, my child, not a rule book. So you're gay?_

Insensitive, perhaps, but necessary. Best to get it from the boy's own mouth than from the second's own knowledge, second-hand from the mind of his descendant even as it swam and crashed against the cages of his skull, began to crack and give under the strain of his Gift.

_Yes. But I think that falling in love is what killed me. I'm dead, father, and I've been dead since the Stasi took my family from me._

It was a vague statement in the vein of a lot of vague statements. But the second was not such a fool as to believe that the first truly believed what had transpired on that night with the rain and the thunder and the men in black suits. Even as he watched, the memory came unbidden to him through the first, a memory of gunshots and blood, of bodies slumped against the broken tarmac of the road and how the first sat in the backseat, tears streaming down his face as his parents bled out and died. But for the sake of the first, the second feigned ignorance of that memory, banished it from between them, banished it from the mind of the first.

_I don't understand._

Enough to placate the first, enough to fool him and allow some semblance of order back into the chill in the air, and a laugh wound its way up to the rafters, light and breezy, tainted though it was with memories of blood and rain.

_I didn't expect you to. But know this; love might kill us, might tear us down till we're nothing but a faded memory in the diary of a girl half our age, but it is a worthy death we die, and a peaceful one, so long as the ones we love are there to greet us as we pass through the gates and into Death's waiting arms._

Of all the things the second had expected to hear, the acknowledgment that love was an eternity, that already the first had knowledge of matters he had only been privy to for a dawn, speaking to the second as though _he_ were the one still with claim to the mortal realm, was not one of them. A claim of brilliance, perhaps, confusion of current affairs, certainly, but not a dichotomy of personality and heart, a moment trapped between the pages of time herself.

_That was… eloquent._

Another laugh, uproarious now, amused beyond words, grateful in the pause. The next words to come from the first were also peculiar, but more familiar, the familial undertone one with which the second could associate for he himself had felt the same desire to protect and coddle, and yet part of the second wondered how it was that the first could blindly ignore the house to which he belonged.

_Take care of yourself, father. There are dangerous things in the world, more than you know._

A laugh from the second this time, quaintly amused and indulgent, because the charade was that of a child stepping for the first time into the world of man, and the second would not ruin that which made the first comfortable in the face of that which he did not understand, without his eternity there to guide him.

_I will. Peace be upon you._

There was little else that could be said, given the dance being performed in the silence of the morning, in the rustle of the cornfields and the songs of the birds on the cemetery stones. The whole of the conversation, the entirety of the moment had been about garnering a little of that peace for the first if the eternity was, by clerical error on the gates of Death though such a thing was as ridiculous as it was possible, denied to him. It had been an arduous journey for the first, that the second knew, and knew well. But it had been, as the first rightly said, a worthy journey, for over the course of it, he had learnt enough that he had been saved. Salvation was a risky business, and not always guaranteed to work, for sincerity could be doubted, but it seemed to the second that the first had succeeded in cheating the demon out of its end of the deal. Self-sacrifice had its price, the doors to heaven were not open to him, but neither were the doors of hell, and that was enough that the second might sweep them under his wing and take them into a place where they might have that peace.

_I already have my peace._

Certainty corded the words, a smug little grin that hovered in the air, and that personality spark was there again and the second could not be more grateful for it, for it meant that the first was ready.

_Then come, my child, and I will take you to that peace. He waits for you._

A brief pause, a hesitation. Then decision, and acceptance, and there was no need to take the first's hands for the peace had already taken them.

_I know. I… I'm ready. Let's go._

And the air returned to normal, the stillness of the cornfields whispering through the gaps in the stone, in the locked and bolted doors, a raven cawing in the cemetery of the Church of the Martyred Alexandrus and it was as though Ghosts had never crossed the hallowed ground.

**++End++**

**NOTES::**

**ALFRED **YOU POOR THING. I hope you've all picked up on a couple of things I made sure to mention. Several times.

A song, I have discovered, for USUK, is **Parachute's **_**The Mess I Made**__. _Listen to it, and then ask if you need an explanation. Not just for this fic, but for the pairing in general. Yes, I was listening to it whilst writing Arthur's little declaration.

I love writing from **Alexandrus' perspective**. Just so you know.

Am I a **romantic**? Why yes I am, thank you for noticing.

**I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THIS MY LOVELIES, AND DON'T FORGET TO LET ME KNOW IF YOU DID OR NOT, AND DON'T WORRY IF YOU HAVE QUESTIONS, I DON'T BITE, SO DROP ME A LINE, AND I'LL GET BACK TO YOU! And remember! I have a USUK sequel in the works, among other projects, so keep your eyes peeled for that, and I hope you liked how I set their story up, because believe it or not, I did. From the off. ++Vince++**


	17. Explanation, FST, Deleted Scenes

**Title: **Life Starts Now

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** Me, I should hope.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **PruCan, USUK, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, Ukr/Can hinted at, FrUK hinted, PrUK bromace, FrPru bromace, SuFin

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Fluff. Slash. Language.

**Chapter Summary: **An explanation of events both said and unsaid.

**A/N: ** Because some people – mainly Silence, it seems, who progressively got more and more confused, so I'm assuming others were too – got lost about halfway through this story, I'm going to give you a lowdown on what you may and may not have picked up. And then I get to watch you slap yourselves in the face. Maybe. If you do that sort of thing. ANYWAY MOVING ON, HOPE THIS HELPS, MY LOVELIES~!

**An Explanation of Events both Said and Unsaid**

**NOTE PLEASE: **If I've already explained something to you in a PM, I've pretty much just copy/pasted what I said. So you know, head's up there.

* * *

**Basic Explanation**

This entire thing is about humanity, it's not about Ghosts, it's not about love, it's not about death. It's about standing up and facing your demons, it's about becoming the person you _want_ to be, even if doing so kills you. It could be an entirely metaphorical journey for the characters. It could be a scathing satire on the police force. It could be anything you want it to be. It could be entirely real to the characters, be a genuine event in their lives, or it could be their raving delusions. It's up to you to decide, because honestly, I don't think I made it as vague and interpretable as I wanted it to be. But who knows what you guys come up with?

**A Timeline of events**

_Matt Dies: _1st July

_Chapter 1_: 2nd

_Chapter 2:_ 9th

_Chapter 3_: 15th

_Funeral_: 16th (morning)

_Chapter 4: _16th(evening)

_Chapter 5: _17th

_Asylum break-in_: 20th (night)

_Chapter 6:_ 21st

_Chapter 7_: 22nd

_Chapter 8: _23rd

_Chapter 9: _23rd (night)

_Chapter 10: _24th (day)

_Chapter 11:_ 24th (afternoon)

_Chapter 12: _24th (night)

_Epilogue:_ 25th (dawn)

**On the Prologue/Epilogue**

So, as I should hope you realised, that's Gil talking to Alexandrus, after his phone call to his brother. I'm surprised none of you commented on it in the prologue actually. Honestly, how many of you realised that this was foreshadowing later events and actually giving the end away? Probably a lot of you, actually. I know Silence did after Chapter 10, but no one else commented on it.

I thought it a nice way to round the story off, 'cause you know, I love writing from Alexandrus' perspective, it's so gooey and posh.

**On BlueTooth**

Ahh, BlueTooth, I forgot about you. Basically, the only purpose of the headset is think about it. In the early days, Matt's not visible. Gilbert's talking to thin air. People will think he's insane. Hence the headset. He can talk to Matt as much as he likes and just look like he's on the phone. That was the only purpose of it. I actually stole the idea from Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunters series. Well, one book actually. In Acheron, the titular character keeps talking to his mother (being an Atlantian God, it's better than it sounds) but obviously she's in hell, being the Destroyer, and so he looks completely insane, and one of his to-be-missus' best friends gives him a headset and says 'put this on and then we can pretend you're on the phone and not nuts' (ad-libbed, I CBA to find the extract). But yeah, that's all BlueTooth was about.

**On Gilbert**

Really? Do I need to explain Gilbert? I'm being totally lazy now, and running out of things to explain, which is why I asked you all to TELL ME WHAT NEEDED EXPLAINING. Uh. Okay, so uh. I can't think of what to explain about Gil other than he actually died in Chapter 6. Yes, you read that right. He died in Chapter 6. Read the ending of that chapter, read the first time Matt possesses him, and then go 'OH SNAP' when you realise what that actually means. I don't think I pulled it off quite right.

And yes, you guessed right about the knife under his mattress if you guessed at all. He was the one to kill Matt. Puts a whole new spin on their relationship really, doesn't it? But the idea is that he was under the demon's possession at the time, because the demon is clearly a fan of being a bastard if not irony. Speaking of!

**On the Demon**

The demon is a representation of Europe. No, I'm not yanking your chain, the demon represents Europe as much as it represents each character's individual fears. Think about it. Europe has infected every country in the world, made every single country like them.

Europe destroyed North America. We – Brits and Frogs and Spaniards and Nords and Dutch guys and everybody else in between – we Europeans went to the Americas and we bended it to our will, we stripped them of everything that was _theirs_ and gave them what was _ours_ as a replacement. What we did to the native peoples of every other country in the world – us Brits especially – was appalling, and I'm not going to sit here and preach about it because I'm not that old, and nor, particularly, do I care about it. What's done is done, and there is nothing I can say to change what happened. But it's true all the same. Europe went through North America and ruined it. That is what Matt's death and Al's coma represent, Europe coming in and obliterating what made them them, turned them into something that better suited _us_.

Europe is also the seat of the World Wars. Yes, there was the African front and the Eastern front, but the bulk of the fighting was on mainland Europe. Europe infected England in 41AD, turned it from the little island nation with a few trading links with the edge of the mainland into this last fort for the Great Roman Empire, and that's all Arthur is to the Ghosts. The Roman fort.

For Francis, Europe has been the seat of devastation. Two World Wars almost destroyed him, and that's ignoring every other war and the internal conflicts. The demon to Francis is 1763, it's when the fallout of the Seven Years War allowed England to take Canada under his less-than-adequate wing as a colony, tear him from France and make him his own, and that's what the demon has done. It's taken Matt from Francis and given him to Arthur, because Arthur is the only one out of the two of them able to communicate, and it's kind of sad, in that respect, but you know, all's fair in love and war, or something, I forget what my point was.

To Gilbert, Europe is his destruction. World War Two was the moment he lost all control, lost any sense of independence, any sense of _life_ at all. Europe tore him down into nothing and left him to try and find the pieces that he might gather them. The demon has not torn Gilbert's life apart, not _really_, because he has put himself in the place where he might be hurt. Which, really, is what Prussia did to himself. He pushed for German unification, pushed for war, put himself in the firing line, and that was his downfall. His hubris. Gilbert is willing to give the demon everything, even if just to save the people he loves, and maybe that was what Prussia did, once Churchill had had his say and denounced Prussia as the source of evil in Europe.

**On Arthur**

Do I really need to explain Artie as well? Really? Fine, so Arthur's a clairvoyant, we've established this. The only thing I think I really need to explain is his, Francis and Alfred's presence in the original Asylum incident. They weren't there for the game Alise, Gil and co. played. They were off playing happy families – when Ivan says he invited Matthew to play, but he was busy, that's why he was busy. However, once Alise shot her brains out and everything started going into panic, Feliks did the _sensible_ thing and called Arthur, who promptly dragged Francis with him to try and clean up the mess. And despite telling the boys to stay put, Alfred followed them and shit hit the fan.

I think I've pretty much explained him elsewhere, and if I explained too much, I'd totally screw you over for the sequel and that's not cool, so some of his story's being left blank, just like with –

**On Alfred**

I need to leave some of Alfred's story blank, because it forms like, half of the storyline for the sequel, but I'm hoping you paid attention to something I mentioned _several times_ in his section of the epilogue, but there are some things I can give you, like this:

Alfred and the army. After Alise's death, Taurys needed to 'get out', and Alfred leapt to the role of hero; after all that Arthur had done for him over the years, he felt he had to repay that care and protection with some of his own, and what better way than to help Taurys out after he got so messed up - this is, obviously, a reference to the Lithuanian Outsourcing strip. Alfred is also in a state of confusion over these events; Arthur had always been a big brother to him, but the feeling he gets in his gut is anything but platonic, and being so American, he knows that gay is 'evil' and has a serious crisis over it, and decides that the easiest way to deal with it is to join the army, killing two birds with one stone; he gets rid of the crush on Arthur (which also transferred onto Liet, because Liet's awesome and I had to get a bit of their pairing in for the BFF because she's mad for them and even managed to make me go 'aww' over them once or twice with their adorable, whatever) because as we ALL know, the army will beat that kind of thing out of you - a reference to the Civil War, in that Alfred's having a fight with himself. Clearly, it didn't work, but never mind. It was such a betrayal to Arthur, because he was in deep shit already over it, and Alfred had promised to stand by him no matter what, but he did a runner and made things twice as bad as they already were since he'd taken one of the key witnesses out of the area - the Revolution. It also didn't help that Ivan was involved, because Alfred's already been at odds with Ivan for years by this point, and all he's doing is making an enemy out of him (which I totally didn't just make up on the spot to have a reference to the Cold War.)

**On Humanity and Matt's Deal**

I wanted to focus on the humanity, on who these guys _are_ rather than what's going on around them. All they are is human, and they seemed to constantly need reminders of this. They're only human. They can't take the weight of the world onto their shoulders and not expect to cave.

Because that is what I was thinking about. The guys are just guys and though Matt isn't so selfish or confident, even, as to walk up to Gil and snog him silly, especially when the only time he really knew him was after Mina died, which had Gil in the worst place he'd ever been in with the love of his life and one of the girls he's closest to dying within days of each other, he is selfish enough as to wish for it, and the wrong person/thing/spirit heard that wish and granted it, and for all the shit that's going on around them, they are still human, they still have feelings and those feelings are just escalating things to new heights. They aren't immune, they aren't above it. They're just human, they do as humans do and that's part of the reason why I 'killed' Alfred off, was to make Arthur remember that he isn't invincible. He might be the one with the brains and the means, but he's not infallible, the demon knows how to play him – MATT knows how to play him.

They have lessons to learn as humans, as _people_, and I wanted to teach them that lesson. It's all about those lessons, it's all about learning that life starts not when your heart starts beating, but when you start _living_.

**On Ivan**

Chapter 10, I hope, makes sense to you. The entire point of this was to demonstrate how far from the 'lit path' they've gone, Gil especially. He is, despite his awesome and despite all that's going on, still only human, he is subject to human emotion and human failings and they are very easy failings and emotions to exploit when you know how. Which Ivan does. He's not evil, he's not remotely connected, he is just aware of how easy it is to play Gil, and by extension, Arthur. He's, in all literary terminology, Arthur's foil. He's what Arthur _could _have become if he let his Clairvoyance get completely out of control, allowed his mind to fall from beneath his feet and turn him into something he despised.

It's also meant to show how he's falling through the space between the real world and the ghost world, him living in kind of a limbo of between worlds (this is something that will reappear in the sequel as an explanation so you will sit there and go 'oh I get it now') He's not being a martyr - his 'would it matter' speech shows that. He's not doing it because he wants to die for the cause, he's doing it because he's scared, because it might help and he's desperate; he's terrified and alone and he's losing his mind in the darkness that Matt has brought him into.

**On 'Closing Gil Off'**

Right, so we know that Arthur's a clairvoyant, and he's 'Open' to the Otherworld. In essence, this means that there's a doorway in his brain that's open, or a switch or something. Something that opens part of his brain up to the Otherworld that isn't normally open. As true clairvoyance and whatnot is rare, it's a part of the brain that's usually closed off from the rest. But once that door/switch/whatever is open, it's very hard to close it again. There's a lot of power rushing through it into the rest of the brain, which is why you're then able to 'see' and 'hear' Ghosts and ghouls, because there's a chemical or something in this closed-off bit of brain that allows you to tune into the Otherworld, but since it's closed off, you're protected. It's like a self-defence mechanism or something - which is why so few people have that open door, it's dangerous and we've seen how ill it makes Arthur when Ghosts possess him. It's almost a genetic fault/mutation or something, hence Arthur's bloodline - as we found out from Alexandrus - are clairvoyants.

So closing it off is highly dangerous - it's like performing a slap-up lobotomy or something; you're shutting part of the brain down, and because it's so dangerous it's highly unrecommended, and because it's so unrecommended it's highly unpractised, meaning that it's made even more dangerous because practically no-one knows what they're doing. It's kind of a _Catch 22_. And besides, it's not like you're relying on practised science to do it, you're relying on the Otherworld to help you, which is yeah, you know, dangerous. Lots of danger involved in this practice. It's a last resort for Arthur, because with Alfred in a coma, the demon's got a free leg-in, and he can use Alfred's body as he will, but since Alfred's 'dormant' in the coma, it's a little easier to shut him off, though it's stupid hard and dangerous with the demon still in his head - more on that in the sequel.

With Gil it's a case of Matt being the one to open him, so Arthur should theoretically be able to close him easier - the door isn't used to Arthur's presence, so it won't fight him as effectively - like a virus, once it's built up an immunity to an antibiotic, it can just override it, but a new antibiotic knocks it for six. It's a similar concept. The door in Gilbert's brain isn't aware of Arthur, so Arthur SHOULD be able to shove it shut though he'd really rather not. But considering Gilbert isn't SUPPOSED to have an open door in his head, he doesn't really have much choice. It would protect him as much as it might hurt him - Arthur might inadvertently close off the wrong bit of Gilbert's brain, or his brain might think the wrong bit's closed off - it's just as likely that Arthur would kill him as he would save him.

**On Payment, Sincerity and Matt's State of Being**

Okay, so it's not so much the SINCERITY that paid the demon. It's more that the sincerity proved to the demon that Gil was WILLING to pay. He was willing to tie himself to the demon, and not find a way around it. Which of course, because I'm a sappy cliché little sod, he does anyway, BECAUSE he's sincere. It's self-sacrifice in the name of others. He's got a free pass through the demon's fingers and there's nowt the demon can do, because he's got the payment. The only thing the sincerity has in relevance is the fact that it proves how willing Gil is. He's not playing a trick, he's being genuine.

The demon was after payment, that's all it was about. Gilbert gave it that payment. And it was the sincerity of Gilbert's speech, the soundness of his state of mind that allowed the demon to extract that payment. He couldn't have done it if it hadn't been convinced one hundred per cent that Gilbert wasn't sincere in his proposal. He needed to be sure that there wasn't a trick in there, that Gilbert wasn't pulling a blinder on him. He's 'gone' because he's got his payment. That's all it is. The idea that your demons disappear because they've been paid, because you've faced your fears head on and given them what-for. Gilbert's accepted his past – accepted that what happened to his parents was a result of the Stasi, hence the appearance of the demon when they met - and he's made his peace with it. Giving the payment is facing his personal demons.

It wasn't about the love, and it wasn't about 'bringing Matthew back', because there's no way to do that, not with any conceivable amount of realism anyway, and I wouldn't bring him back even if I could – he's been buried, people who know him are not an hour away from where they are, he's already been dead three weeks, can you imagine what would happen if he suddenly waltzed back in alive? But I wanted you to think that, so fear not. I WANTED you to believe that Matthew was alive, because that was the point. It was all about life not being about a heart that beats or lungs that breathe. It's about the people, it's about _whom_ you are, not _what_ you are. And maybe, just maybe, Matthew's alive, more alive than he ever was when he was clinically alive. Maybe not.

**On **_**The Mess I Made**_

The Mess I Made; I listened to it whilst I was writing the entire chapter. It's become of my all-time favourites in a matter of hours. It stands for the Revolution, pretty much. From both ends, because it was the beginning of the end, but also the end of the beginning. They had something good, but it got lost under the sea of hate and pain that had swelled up around them almost without them noticing. All of a sudden, they were at each other's throats, and they'd been living in their own little bubble, slowly but surely falling in love with each other, even though neither knew what it meant. And it ended, that bubble, it burst, leaving them to nurse their wounds and try to pick up the pieces. It was an un-repairable seam in their relationship, but inside that split seam was the possibility of a new relationship, a new bubble they could surround themselves in. It's all the moments Arthur COULD have said he loved Alfred, all the moments when Alfred COULD have kissed Arthur but didn't. It's all the missed opportunities, all the times they looked at each other and had so much to say and do but no way to do it. It's that single moment when enough is enough, when the only way to go is out. It's the moment Alfred went 'I can't do this' and walked away via the Rev. It's the moment when Arthur COULD have had Alfred as his, if only he'd bothered to look, to say 'I love you'. Or something. IDEK.

**On Cousins and Brothers**

Basically, Gilbert's parents were killed by the Stasi when he was five, and it was only 8 months before the Berlin Wall came down, yada yada yada, we know this. After the wall came down, he was sent to live with his uncle and his cousins, Germania, Germany and HRE. As Ludwig was only ten months younger than Gilbert, they grew up very close to each other and began to see each other more as brothers than they did as cousins. Well, when you're five, you don't really know the difference, do you really? So it didn't matter to them that Gilbert was part of a different family, though he grew up hating Lothar, because he was convinced - and it's not like Lothar denies it - selling Gil's father out to the Stasi because Lothar hated him, being Gil's mum's cousin and so on. So yeah. Let's pretend it's just Ludwig seeing Gilbert as his brother rather than his cousin and I'll probably go back and change that because I suck utter balls. ONWARDS.

I think that's everything, right? Right.

* * *

**So, FST, because I can:**

Obviously, the **chapter titles** are part of it, 'cause you know, DUH.

_**Taken By a Stranger**_ - Lena Meyer-Landrut (Thanks Apollo for this one)

_**Draw the Line - **_David Gray

_**Wollt Ihr Das Bett in Flammen Sehen? - **_Rammstein

_**Down the Rabbit Hole - **_Adam Lambert

_**Russian Roulette - **_Rihanna

_**The Mess I Made - **_Parachute

_**Fields of Gold - **_Eva Cassidy

_**Lost Carol**_ - Mary Elizabeth McGlynn

_**Best of Me - **_Foo Fighters

_**No Bravery**_ - James Blunt

_**Genius Next Door**_ - Regina Spektor (Again; Apollo)

* * *

And now for something completely different. Was that a Monty Python reference? Yes, yes it was. Well done. Have a cupcake or something, but try not to choke.

**Deleted Scenes:**

**From the original chapter 10 (now Chapter 7), which was when PruCan were going to have their first kiss. Things got out of control after Matt possessed Gil, Gil had a breakdown over being a defect, since Lothar has spent 15 years putting him down and then this little scene happened, and I love it, purely for Arthur's reaction:**

"Arthur? Can Ghosts have sex?"

Arthur choked on his tea. Clearing his throat as discreetly as he could whilst he clawed at the remains of his dignity, he glanced at the blond sat opposite him, his outline blurred almost to his heart, leaving only the vaguest suggestion of colour, the thinnest trace of a solid body sat ramrod-straight on the couch, his lavender eyes more piercing than ever, glaring through the fog. With a shaking hand, he put the mug down and took a calming breath.

"I can't say I've ever asked a Ghost whether it's had sex. It's hardly appropriate."

"D'you think we can though?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the odd urgency in the boy's tone. Matt had displayed no desire in sex since his death, what with the act playing such a big role in it. To ask such a question was odd anyway – Matt had much more subtlety than that – but to ask it in such a manner…

"Why the burning desire to know, lad?" Arthur paused and thought about it. "I suppose two Ghosts could. They're the same substance after all. Their existence is no less than the living, merely on a different plain. A step out of synch with this world."

"But what about a _human_ and a Ghost?"

Arthur stared at him, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. "Matthew, why would you…?"

"Just answer the question!" Matthew pleaded, a demand on the very edge of his voice. "Is it possible?"

"I suppose… theoretically. I mean, it's possible, if your body was solid enough… you could. _Why_?"

Matthew flushed even as he disappeared for a long moment in which Arthur had to wonder if he was still in the room. Eventually he returned, composed over his embarrassment.

In hindsight, Arthur would never pick his mug up after asking any question, no matter how banal or how personal. Ever.

"I nearly had sex with Gilbert last night."

He spat tea over his knees and onto the floor. From her spot sprawled across the top of the dresser, Salem gave him a disparaging look. He flipped her off and blurted out, "You nearly _what_?" His jaw remained hanging, his eyes wide even as he made a vague attempt at dabbing the tea from his kneecaps.

"You heard me, eh? We were so close, but then his uncle walked in, 'cause obviously, he could hear Gilbert, but not me."

Arthur rubbed his temples, sinking into the upholstery and trying to decide if he was dreaming. Yes, he was happy Matthew had regained some of his humanity, that he had found the happiness denied him in life, that he was now mostly solid.

But, _Jesus Christ_, he did _not_ need the mental images!

**From the original Chapter 8 (now Chapter 6) in which Gil and Arthur get attacked in the Asylum. I love writing Matt:**

Gilbert ducked the wheelchair aimed at his head and slammed his back against Arthur's, who promptly let out a loud yelp at the shock the action produced.

"Goddamn it, Kraut!" the Briton snapped. "Don't scare me like that!"

"Duck!" Gilbert yelled, and narrowly avoided the wheelchair making a return volley. A loud clatter and a shower of dust indicated it taking a chunk from the wall and rattling the ceiling's already fragile frame.

"Why can't we _go_?" he snapped, wheeling to take a photo.

The picture of the blurred outline of the ghost inches from the camera's lens made him whimper before he rounded on Arthur again.

"It doesn't help my blood pressure, you know!"

Arthur seemed to be trying not to cry. "Look!" he snapped. "It's not my fucking fault that they didn't want us here!"

"You brought us here!"

"You came along, you stupid fucker!"

"Having fun?"

The two screamed loudly and leapt almost a foot into the air, clinging onto each other comically. Even when their eyes focused on the blurred outline of Matt, doubled over in laughter at the picture they painted, they didn't let go.

"You stupid git!" they yelled simultaneously. "That wasn't funny!"

"Jesus Christ, Matt, give a guy a heart attack!" Gilbert snapped, shoving Arthur away from him and gathering the last shreds of his dignity.

"Oh, you shoulda seen your… your faces!" Matt wheezed, pointing a waving finger at them. "You're so funny, eh!"

Arthur dusted himself down, glancing around for the violent ghosts. "Where are they?"

The silence that had fallen in the wake of their disappearance and Matt's appearance seemed suspicious to the Brit, but he very much doubted Matt could manifest himself as two people at once.

"The patients? I scared them off. Throw a pebble at them and they run like geese. You should try it sometime."

Gilbert's face was a perfect deadpan. "You mean to tell me I've been pissing my pants for the last ten minutes over _nothing_?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, looking up from the dust-streaks across his knees. "You pissed your pants?"

"In your dreams, bushybrows!"

Arthur scowled. "Call me that again, I dare you."

Gilbert's grin flashed his canines and his shoulders hunched. "…_Bushybrows_."

Arthur tried to leap at him, but Matt had already grabbed his shoulders and yanked him away.

**The original premise of Life Starts Now had Matt dead 2 years before the start of the story, and I never really worked out why it took him that long to get to Gil, but then, whatever, it's a fanfic, it doesn't need to make sense. Anyway, in the original, Gil was unaware of Matt's death and its connection to the lake, so he goes for a skinny-dipping swim. Then Matt shows up. Fun happens:**

Even though he was alone, even though there was nobody anywhere near him, he could feel it. He could feel someone around. Not _bad_, no, there was no malevolence in them. They were a neutral party, best he could gather anyway.

Gilbert surfaced again, face turned into the storm raging above his head, eyes closed, revelling in the thunder, the lightning, the slap of rain against water. This place was beautiful, like the way the Asylum was beautiful. It was a derelict building, yes, but it was forgotten, peaceful, beautiful in its torment.

And that made him feel disgusted with himself and he threw himself back under the water to shake of the coil of guilt and pain and sadness that was winding in his chest. He _hated_ self-pity. He hated being sorry for himself. He was Awesome, and therefore, exempt from such belittling emotions.

He was under the surface in the clear expanses of the oversized pond, in near darkness for perhaps twenty seconds before he got the distinct feeling of fingers dancing along his spine, sending a shiver skittering across his skin. He whipped around to see what there was behind him.

Nothing. Twenty cubic feet of water, perhaps.

To his left, nothing.

To his right, nothing.

He was alone.

Less than a minute later, he'd hoisted himself from the water and was stood next to his pile of clothes.

Only, they weren't there.

His clothes had vanished.

Fucking great.

**We originally met Arthur in **_**The Louvre**_**, when we see them getting pissed and Gil goes on FMLife. Gil originally took some photos of the lake area, being a photography student and developed them. That scene translated into him going to the alley:**

Hours later, Gilbert lay on his bed, staring at the photographs not hours old. Arranged neatly on his quilt, he stared at them.

On every single one, the faint outline of a boy could be seen, hair a mess, glasses on his nose, wrapped in a torn hooded sweatshirt and tattered jeans, a bear in his arms.

It was the same boy he'd dreamt about.

He stared for a few moments longer before swinging his arm, swiping them all off his bed and letting out a growl.

"I'm going fucking crazy," he hissed, standing and kicking one of the photos angrily. "What I need is _not _some stupid fucking ghost. I need to get pissed."

And he knew just the man.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland was, at his heart, a biker. Everybody knew it, and everybody knew the Triumph parked outside the Academy was Arthur's, as if the Union Jack embossed onto the side of the tank wasn't enough of a giveaway.

It was why he and Gilbert got on so well, Francis said once or twice, when Gilbert actually deigned to speak to the Englishman. They tended to fight when they spoke, if they weren't pissed.

But hey, that was the way they worked, and Arthur was always up for a drink.

Well, so was Timo, but after the last time they got the little Finn pissed off his face, Berwald had had something to say about it (if you could call Oxenstierna's grunts speech) and Gilbert had no desire to get a black eye again.

For now, anyway.

But it was a moot point, for Gilbert was looking for a drinking partner he actually liked, and Arthur was a safe bet.

Now, to find the bastard.

Arthur was easy enough to find; he practically _lived_ in the Academy's library, and if he wasn't there, he was usually in _The Louvre_, getting pissed. So it was to _The Louvre_ Gilbert headed.

As he expected, Arthur's already half-drunk.

_Don't drink yourself into oblivion, Gilbert. It could kill you. You're lucky to be alive as it is. Anything more could – and probably would – kill you. Are you so desperate to destroy yourself?_

Bastards, the lot of them. To think he wanted to be a doctor!

"Oi, Fran, get me one of them, will you?" he demanded of the Frenchman behind the bar, gesturing at Arthur's glass.

Arthur snorted. "Are you trying to kill yourself, Kraut?"

Gilbert hoisted himself into the chair next to the Englishman, and grinned at him. "You gotta pay for that, _Artie_, or I might get offended."

Arthur snorted, but dumped the correct money in Francis's waiting palm and turned back to his drink.

It took exactly thirty-seven seconds (not that Gilbert was counting) before his curiosity won out and he asked, "What do you want me for this time?"

"I need a drink."

"And here it is," Francis cooed, planting the glass in front of him.

Gilbert sniffed it. _Fuck_.

Arthur raised an expectant eyebrow. "What's the matter, _Gilbo_? Too grown-up for milk?"

He downed it in one.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**I think that's it now, right? I've done everything I said was I was going to, and I can't think of anything else I might need. I hate that this bloody site screws with my formatting. To which I say; FFFFF.**

**I hope you've enjoyed my lovelies, and I'll see in other projects and the sequel!**

**++Vince++**


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